


Gathering Storms

by gyunikum



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Dark, Gen, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mystery, Period Typical Attitudes, harry potter characters - Freeform, implied PTSD, more characters and relationships to be tagged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-04-15 00:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14147778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyunikum/pseuds/gyunikum
Summary: In 1940, the wizarding community of Europe is in utter chaos, mostly from Grindelwald's terror, but also from the fresh outbreak of a muggle-war. Effects of it can be felt in Hogwarts as well, as more and more students are urged to stay there for the holidays instead of going home.Peter is one of the handful of students taking the Hogwarts Express back to school. However neither Hogwarts nor the train are safe anymore, and Peter is there to feel the Winds of War first-hand.





	1. Case of the Halted Train

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of a Harry Potter au has been in my mind for a veeeery long time, but I could never come up with a comprehensive plot. I only ever had this train scene mapped out which was not much, but then the new trailer came out for Fantastic Beasts 2, and I felt like watching the first movie, and then it was just like an avalanche. 
> 
> Only the first chapter is written, but I'm going to try to write it faster than Oasis Reverie coughcough, so things like relationships might change. When I write a fic, even things that I set in stone are prone to change lol
> 
> Also, some of you might not agree with the houses I placed some of the characters in, but honestly, I didn't spend any time thinking about it - I just put them in the house that popped in my mind first.

“It’s for the greater good.”

“Whose greater good? Certainly not any of us.”

“Mine!”

The wind howled, a swift, snow-ridden wolf begging at the grey clouds to swim along.

“Alex, I’m not going to help you.”

“C’mon Dawson, don’t be a wimp.”

The train shuddered, and tilted as it entered a long curve. Peter had to brace a hand on the wall that Alex was leaning against with his arms crossed. He had yet to change into his uniform. Peter’s own robes had been washed and dried just a day before departure, soft with a subtle fragrance.

“Ask someone else. I don’t want to start the new year in detention just because you wanted to impress Tommy. You’re in Slytherin, that’s already impressive for someone like you.”

“I’ll take that last bit as compliment,” said Alex with narrowed eyes and a scrunched face as if he couldn’t decide if he really wanted to take it as a compliment. Peter could not care less what Alex thought.

He had a rule of avoiding Slytherin students—mostly under the influence of his brother’s tales when he had been attending Hogwarts just before Peter could turn eleven and decide for himself. Peter still clearly remembered his sorting ceremony—he’d tried so hard not to think of anything he’d always associated with Slytherin and their slyness, but the hat, that cursed hat had seen behind Adam’s Gryffindor influence on young Peter, and had outwardly wondered if Slytherin would be the most appropriate house to help grow and nurture Peter’s hidden qualities.

In the end, Peter had gotten into Hufflepuff, and from then on, he’d sworn not to cross paths with anything Slytherin unless he absolutely had to.

Alex was an unwanted mistake that Peter could not ignore. Not for the past two years.

It was all George’s fault anyway. He and Tommy were both in Gryffindor, and along the years, Tommy had become George’s second best friend – just a step behind Peter. Alex was, by some kind of miracle, Tommy’s friend, defying all logic that there could be more than just rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Or, more precisely, Alex was more than just Tommy’s friend, and Peter cursed whatever way Alex had learned of Peter’s own preferences. The two of them, unwilling though, rowed in the same boat on a vast ocean of century-old traditions that not only ridiculed and exiled the likes of them but also destroyed their whole family, be it Muggle-born – in Alex’s case – or pure-blood – in Peter’s case.

“Oi, where are you going?”

“To take a nap,” said Peter, turning around to head for the corridor of compartments. At the back of the coach, near the toilet was colder and louder as the train chugged along the snowy landscape. “Just a friendly advice, Alex, change into your uniform.”

They didn’t have to become friends just because they were stuck in the same boat. Alex sent Peter off with a loud scoff and a mumbled insult mainly young children used.

Peter entered the last coach – he always hated walking between train cars when said train was in motion – and stopped by one of the windows to look outside and clear his thoughts. All he could see was darkness and his own reflection, blurred and too tired. He wasn’t sure just where in Scotland they currently were, but they’d been on the train for a handful of hours by now. Surely they should be arriving soon—Peter couldn’t wait to sleep in his own bed.

In the reflection, behind him, he could see into the compartment, occupied by a single passenger that Peter hadn’t seen before—not that he paid much attention to it. The person was curled up with their feet on the seats, shoes on the ground, using a black coat as a blanket pulled over their head, probably to block out the lamps they could have just turned off if they wanted to sleep.

Peter wondered which house the student belonged to—it didn’t make much difference unless it was Slytherin, but he always liked to know instantly what kind of basic qualities another student had. It allowed Peter to prepare for confrontation, even if they were just innocent conversations such as the advantages and disadvantages of muggle ingredients in modern potion-making, or the weather.

The unknown passenger in the coupe slightly baffled Peter, because it was no Hogwarts robe but a common winter coat. Maybe the student had forgotten to change into his or her uniform, just like Alex. Maybe it wasn’t even a student.

Never mind. Peter was tired.

Luckily, the whole coach was nearly empty—no loud first-years running up and down the corridors like in September. The entire train was just like that. Peter had barely seen a dozen students at King’s Cross, much less anyone at the Portsmouth train station—as far as Peter knew, he was the only one from the entirety of Portsmouth returning to Hogwarts. He knew a few wizards from his hometown going back home for the holidays, like the Rodwell twins from the Isle of Wight, or Frankie Atkinson from Mooring’s Way, but Peter didn’t see any of them on the train. Maybe they took the bus.

Apart from the deserted Hogwarts Express, a record number of students had remained in Hogwarts for the holidays, even those who usually visited home every chance they got in the past years. Peter had seen – or more like heard – the letter George had gotten from his parents before winter break telling him to stay in Hogwarts for they feared for his safety in London.

It hadn’t been hard to guess what George’s parents were referring to—the muggle war. True, the criminal Grindelwald’s terror was gaining momentum each year, but young wizards and witches were the least likely to be threatened by it. It was a war waged between adults, and though Peter was just a year from being considered one, students had hardly an influence in politics. On top of that, the Dawson family had remained neutral for many centuries, and Peter wasn’t going to be the one to change their traditions.

Muggles, however—well, Peter didn’t know much about the muggle war razing through mainland Europe, but he’d heard things, horrible things. Adam would discuss aspects of it with their father, but Mr. Dawson had prohibited Adam from doing so with Peter. Surely the Channel would stop any muggle invasion from reaching the British Isles, there was no reason to worry.

Not for the wizarding world at least, for time being. But while he was home for the holidays, Peter had been told that the older son of the family in their neighbour, Marcus, was shot down over France.

Peter couldn’t fathom it—so he tried not to think about it. But whenever he tried to fall asleep, left alone to his thoughts, he could not ignore the urge for his mind to wander. How would the war affect them, or Grindelwald’s _revolution_?

What was to come?

Ideologies and politics, Peter didn’t have much care for them, but they were undoubtedly two of the largest springs in this machine called the world. The Dawson family cultivated a close friendship with most of its muggle neighbours to keep up with the illusions of a normal family, and in Marcus, Peter had found a friend whom he spent a lot of summer days with. Marcus was older than Peter by a handful of years but had never forgotten to send Peter a letter when he was away after he had enlisted in the army just a year prior. Little did Peter know that the previous Easter was last time he would see his friend—that was when, officially a new pilot, Marcus had called the world a machine, and compared himself to a small screw without which the mechanism would continue to work, though he still had a job to do nevertheless. He then asked what Peter had thought he himself was, and Peter had said, after a moment of consideration—a dust speckle, not part of the mechanism, but still there, just like the entirety of the Dawson family, unwillingly affecting their environment.

Powerful people with their own ideologies were dangerous. The wizarding world was at war around the globe, and muggles were at war throughout Europe, and who was to say that neither fights would reach Britain?

Who was to say that Peter would have somewhere to return to this Easter?

He didn’t want to think about it.

He should have just taken up on Alex’s idiotic proposal to do something equally idiotic that Alex had been convinced would impress Tommy in any way. George had, by the wishes of his parents, stayed in the school, and both Gryffindor and Slytherin were in different coaches ahead. Nor did Peter feel like being a third wheel stuck between Alex’s infatuation for Tommy, and Tommy’s obliviousness to said infatuation. Between forcing himself to awkward conversations with other Hufflepuffs whom Peter barely knew and reading the required book given by Galatea Merrythought to finish during the holidays, Peter had merrily chosen the latter. He was failing at Defence Against the Dark Arts miserably anyway. The structural changes of spells during non-verbal spellcasting could be interesting if Peter wanted. If he—really wanted.

Only that, they actually weren’t interesting, and Peter really didn’t want, so he fell asleep with the book open in his lap, and a soundproofing spell cast around him to muffle the loud pit-pat of the train so he could at least focus on what he was reading even if he didn’t actually understand what he was trying to read. The book lost him at the mention of denudated conduit-threads.

He woke on the floor of the compartment between the two benches, his required reading strewn across the other side as if the train had suddenly stopped and sent Peter and his book flying forward. At first Peter thought that he’d overslept, and they’d arrived already, but when he climbed back onto the seat and glanced out, he could not see the tell-tale lamps of the train station. In fact, he couldn’t see anything—until the lights went out after half a minute of strange flickering.

Then, Peter saw that outside raged a snowstorm, and the train had stopped on a bridge that stretched over a valley between two mountains.

As Peter leaned against the window to properly wake up and wrap his mind around the fact that the Hogwarts Express had just _stopped_ in the middle of nowhere before reaching its destination, his breath turned into white puffs, fogging the glass as the temperature dropped suddenly. Under his uniform and robe Peter could feel the hairs on his arms and neck standing up as a shiver ran through him. Something was wrong.

A cold sweat came over him, and an inexplicable feeling jumped across his spine, leaving in its wake nothing but frozen blood and sensations that washed over Peter whenever bad thoughts broke the surface of his mind.

One by one, his nastiest memories returned, as if an invisible force had destroyed a dam that kept them back, they came flooding back, from small embarrassing moments to his worst fears, and as Peter leaned on the small table by the window to catch his breath and calm his racing heart, he could feel strength leaving his arms until his elbows nearly folded under his own weight.

He felt a presence behind him. His teeth were clattering as he trembled in fear and the chill of an unknown terror. He couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears and the hammering of his heart, but for the moment that he held his breath, he caught the whisper of clothes rustling—it was there with him, inside his little bubble of absolute quiet.

Slowly, a skeletal hand slipped over his shoulder, fleshless fingers slithering like worms to grab him, and Peter turned his head to the side at a snail’s pace, feeling each second tick by as an eternity, until the grey hand connected to a black sleeve that floated, sickly and flimsily.

The name was on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he could not utter it—nor could he yell. Something stopped him from doing so. It was the same feeling that stopped him from recalling any of his happy memories, ones that he cherished with all his heart. Instead, bleakness and void filled him, and never had Peter felt so hopeless in his life.

Before he could be turned around, and stare into a depthless mouth, though, a loud yell rang through the compartment, breaking the soundproofing spell.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

The dementor screeched, and in one swift movement, yanked open the window and flitted out past Peter. As soon as the touch was gone from his shoulder, Peter crumbled to the floor. A scream came from another part of the train, but he couldn’t focus on it.

“Hey,” came a soft voice from above Peter. Someone crouched before him, and there were hands on his shoulder, assessing his state. “Did you—are you okay?”

Peter, with trembling lips, lifted his head and tried to recognize the man in the nearly blinding light of his wand. All Peter managed to figure out was that this man was definitely not a student at Hogwarts—but his mind could not go further than that. He was still too shaken by the brush of dementor to think properly.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“P-Peter,” he stuttered quietly, staring ahead without seeing. He was still cold, but not nearly as freezing as just a minute before. Had he been just saved? “Thank you.”

“Can you stand?”

Peter swallowed, glanced at his legs that were still sprawled in an awkward position, feeling as though they were not even his own limbs, flexed his stiff toes, and then nodded. A high-pitched scream slashed across the cold silence.

“Good,” said the unknown man turning back to him, and after a moment, pulled Peter to his feet. “Do you know the Patronus Charm?”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, not knowing why he was just asked this—oh. Right. The dementor.

There was a dementor on the train. More than one, judging by the screams—students, in Peter’s shoes, cornered by those foul beasts, and they did not have anyone to save them. They needed to be saved.

“Yes, I—I do,” he stammered, raking his brain for his happy memories. To his relief, no longer was he blocked from accessing them, though they were still somewhat blurry.

The man looked taken aback. “Wait, you do?”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. Oh. “Uh. Extracurricular activity.”

“Unbelievable. What do they teach you kids these days,” the man shook his head with a ghost of a smile, elevating Peter’s mood just the tiniest bit. “Alright Peter,” he said then, “I need your help out there. Get your wand and follow me.”

Peter really didn’t want to leave his compartment, but the echoing screams urged him to take action. He pulled his wand from his robe, feeling relieved at its unharmed sight, and followed the nameless man into the corridor.

He turned towards Peter, his elegant wand like waves held in between them for a bit of light in the darkness.

“Peter,” the man spoke up hurriedly, catching his attention, “there are dementors on the train. We need to help your friends. I want you to cover my back—as soon as you see a dementor, think of something that makes you very happy, and summon your patronus.”

It helped, the explanation, even though Peter was aware of the situation and how he was supposed to use the spell. He knew all of these, yet the man’s voice felt like some kind of floating spell for a drowning man. The words were a handle Peter could hold onto and gather his jumbled thoughts.

For a delirious moment, his mind jumped to his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, and he wondered how would his patronus appear if Peter didn’t use words—but a second later, he was being pulled along down the hallway towards the next car from where an occasional scream or muffled spellcasting emerged. Apparently, he wasn’t the only student on Hogwarts Express who knew how to cast the patronus charm.

Peter would soon wake from this nightmare. It was a matter of time—

Was it a nightmare if he was aware of the fact that he was dreaming? Had Alex pranked him instead for not helping him? Wait, no—all spells that altered the recipient’s dreams without their consent were considered dark magic. Peter had read it in one of the DADA books. He wasn’t a complete lost case after all.

This couldn’t have been a prank.

Either this was a nightmare – which Peter did seriously doubt deep down – or dementors had really boarded the train for some unknown reason.

“Peter!” came a yell, and before Peter could do anything, a flash of silver-y blue hopped past him, right into the face of the dementor attempting to enter the train through one of the windows. The unknown man grabbed Peter’s shoulder before the dementor was completely gone, and whirled him around. “Focus, Peter, I need you to focus!”

Peter, unable to say anything, just nodded, and reassured his grip on his wand. He had to quickly come up with one of his happiest memories, but what was it—where was it? Happy memories, he’s got loads of it, but none would be quite good if he wanted to drive away dementors.

He’d never encountered one before—all he’d ever practiced his patronus spell was on a boggart, never quite the real thing.

What made him happy? In what could a student like Peter find joy?

When he finally got his wand, or when he first flew. The first time in fourth year when a complicated spell worked. Whenever he’s with George and Tommy. Whenever Hufflepuff led with the most house points—not enough. These were not enough.

When Alex had unknowingly confessed to Peter that he fancied boys too—no, that had made Peter relieved, not happy.

Peter had always been happy with his life, but it was not enough—because he was not truly happy, never. It had always been contentment, not happiness, and how was he supposed to differentiate the two?

“Peter, stop thinking about it,” the man spoke suddenly, holding both his shoulders. He looked deep into Peter’s eyes. “It will come on its own. Let it come.”

Peter was about to nod, once again unable to say anything, too speechless, when a cry for help echoed down the corridor.

“Help! Someone get this—bloody thing out of my face!”

It was Alex.

Without thinking, Peter pushed the man out of the way – he should apologize later – and rushed towards the source of voice until he nearly ran into the back of a dementor floating into a compartment—Peter could not see into the coupe as the windows were frozen blurry with icy flowers, but he knew that Alex was in there.

Warmth surged through Peter, like a jet of hot water in a fountain, and it glistened at the tip of his wand only for a moment before it unfolded into a disk of brilliant brightness so blinding the dementor seemed to evaporate. The window slammed shut after it.

“Alex!”

“Merlin’s tits, never have I been so happy to see your face, Dawson,” Alex sighed as soon as he realized who he was looking at. Hurried footsteps signalled the arrival of Peter’s saviour, earning a confused look from Alex. He was about to say something, but Peter beat him to it.

“Have you seen Tommy?”

Alex’s face morphed into something terrified at the mention of the Gryffindor student.

“Alex—”

“He said he would go for help, that moron! I—I tried to stop him but—”

“It’s alright, lad,” said the man from the door. “I’ll go look for your friend. You two, round up everyone into one wagon and wait. Don’t let anyone out. Help is on the way.”

In just a few cold minutes, the second car was filled with pale faces and wet cheeks, soft whimpering and sniffling. A handful of terrified second and third years – even some fourth years – were curled up between the seats on the floor while older students tried their best to calm them and each other, though they too stared ahead of themselves, shaken out of their wits at the events occurring.

Seventh years could, in theory, summon their patronus, but most of them were unable to do so, and Peter honestly couldn’t blame them. Lucky for them, though, and strangely enough, as soon as all passengers were herded into one coach, the dementors had seemingly ceased their attacks on the train.

It must have had something to do with the man, Peter reckoned, but he tried not to think too much about it. He would be safe, and he would bring Tommy back. After that, they only had to defend this train carriage-turned-fortress until help arrived—Peter was optimistic that both Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic had been alerted, if the faint red glow outside was any indication.

“Who was that bloke anyway?” asked Alex, his arms crossed over his chest defensively. His grip on his wand was vice-like, knuckles almost as white as his face. He’d been like that since he nearly let a dementor give the kiss to a Ravenclaw witch in the other coach. Curiously enough, he hadn’t been as shaken when said dementor attacked him instead.

“No idea,” Peter shrugged. He found it best not to talk about the situation itself with Alex. The Slytherin student was just too—skittish. Peter didn’t know Alex very well; he didn’t know how to act around him. If only Tommy were here. “He saved me from a dementor though.”

“He looked too old to be a student,” Alex deducted. “And professors don’t come in the middle of a term. Reckon he’s—” he stopped himself to look past Peter’s shoulders, then to glance out the window.

“What?” Peter asked. They were standing by one of the doors, guarding the entrance, while most of the students converged around the centre of the coach.

“—that he’s got something to do with the attack? Dementors don’t just—”

“But he saved us. We’d be—hurt without him,” argued Peter quietly so as not to raise alarm for the other students.

Alex huffed, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t seem convinced with his own theory. Still, he pressed on. “Seriously, Peter, I know you Hufflepuff lot are naïve but you take the cake.”

“‘Cause you know _so_ much about dementors!” Peter hissed back, taking a step closer to the Slytherin student. Their conversation must have looked suspicious to any onlooker, but he couldn’t help himself—he wouldn’t let Alex insult the man who’d essentially saved all of them.

Alex didn’t answer to that, and instead opted to turn away from Peter in a clear message that he was done with the discussion. He sat down on the seat nearest to him and leaned forward to bury his face in his hands.

Peter sighed in defeat. He wanted to go out and help as much as he wanted to remain in the apparent safety of the train. Not knowing what was going on outside put him on edge.

Some minutes later, murmuring pulled Peter from his thoughts, and by the time he caught himself, there was commotion in the other side of the carriage. Both a Gryffindor and a Slytherin student was trying to get out, pushing at a seventh year Ravenclaw boy appointed to guard that exit.

“Let us out!” one of the students yelled, making the younger ones cry out in fright.

“We’re safer in here!” the Ravenclaw student argued, trying to block the other two with his body. Peter glanced at Alex, but he was just watching the events with mild interest. For a moment, Peter hesitated getting involved; he wasn’t leader of this little—resistance they had going. He wasn’t even the most senior student nor was he a prefect in there. He had no responsibility for the others. The unknown man was, but he wasn’t there to do assume authority.

“Until when?” shouted the other boy who wanted to get out. “We’ve been waiting for hours—where’s the bloody Ministry?!”

Peter’s leg twitched. He was torn between staying where he’d been told to stay and getting involved. It wasn’t his fight, not usually, but right now, they were all locked in a train coach with the possibility of dementors mounting an attack on them any moment—if this infighting continued, none of them would be able to protect themselves. On school grounds, it would have been silly, but right now their lives were at stake.

“We’re all going to die here,” a girl whispered nearby, but loud enough for those around her to hear, causing them to gasp. It was like a domino effect, and one by one everyone started talking, yelling, screaming and crying.

Peter whipped his wand out before the first student could reach him with the intention of exiting the train.

“Nobody goes anywhere!” he yelled. The Slytherin boy right in front of him huffed and puffed, his face twisted with desperation and thoughtless anger.

“Get out of my way, you badger-shit,” hissed the boy.

For a moment there was a terrifying silence floating in the entire coach as everybody stopped and stared, until tempers flared and it all spun out of control at the snap of a finger.

“Shut it!” someone shouted.

“You can’t cast in here!” a girl screeched.

Peter backed against the door to keep it shut with his own body if need be, wand raised at the ready should the Slytherin boy who’d just insulted him get the wrong idea, and they were locked in a staring contest for a few moments until the other boy’s eyes fluttered to the side—Peter caught glimpse of Alex rising to his feet, and this one movement managed to elevate the tension of his housemate’s shoulders.

“I can’t let you go out, Avery,” said Alex slowly, though the hidden threat in his voice did not escape the other boy.

“One day,” Avery hissed, his black eyes like onyx so furious, “you might find yourself stabbed in the back, _Alex_.”

Just when Avery had turned around to try his luck with the other door, the chaos in the carriage reaching its climax, the ground beneath them trembled, and caught those off-guard who were too preoccupied with arguing. Students fell to the floor as the coach shook again, and this time, for a moment, Peter could feel the train leave the tracks before it was dropped back down with a loud bang.

Luggage from the overhead racks toppled to the ground and onto unfortunate students as the unknown force slammed into the side of the coach once again.

“ _Aggravatio_!” Peter cast, pointing his wand at a nearby bag lying around without its owner. From another part of the car came a spell that locked the windows, and another one from someone else that tinted the glasses dark.

“What are we going to do?!” someone cried out hysterically.

Students were staring at Peter—as if he would know the answer. As if he had a plan just because he was the first one to cast a spell that increased an object’s weight in order to weigh down the coach more. It had been mere instinct; his mind was wretchedly empty.

“We can’t stay in here!” a boy called out, earning turning heads and nods, along with agreeing responses to his sound suggestion. It was evident.

Peter opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, but one by one people began looking for a leader in the boy who’d last spoken, and the next moment, the Ravenclaw boy was pushed aside, the door he’d been guarding slammed out as students stomped on each other to save their skin.

“We can’t leave—” Peter whispered weakly.

“If you want to stay on the train when them dementors push it off the bridge, be my guest,” Alex spoke up as he stepped in front of Peter. “But I’m getting off.”

“What?” Peter shook his head to get himself together, and gaped at Alex. “They’ll pick you off the moment you step outside.”

“I’d rather see what’s coming at me,” Alex argued. “We’re sitting ducks in here.”

“Help should be arriving any moment!” Peter tried. Only a few other students remained in the carriage, lounging around as though they couldn’t decide what to do. Peter knew they were eavesdropping, waiting to see what either of them would do, no doubt ready to do the same as Peter or Alex.

“You do whatever you want,” sighed Alex, flipping his wand at the door with a quiet _alohomora_. “I need to save Tommy.”

“Tommy? But that man—”

“It’s been an hour!” Alex burst out. “Have you not considered the fact that maybe this was his plan all along? To get us all into one coach and have the dementors push us off?”

“Don’t be daft!” Peter retaliated. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?” He grabbed the doorknob and closed the door in Alex’s face.

“Piss off!” Alex hissed and pushed Peter to the side. Peter tripped and landed on a nearby bench, cushioning his fall. He chanced a glance at the others who were staring at the argument with wide eyes. For a few minutes, they all stayed like this, the others staring and Peter trying to swallow what just had happened.

“Why—” said one of the students then, very quietly, and just as confused, “would the dementors want to push us off?”

Peter grabbed his robe and stormed out of the coach—only for a blast of freezing wind to slap him in the face as the door that usually opened to the gangway connection between two carriages was torn open; the first – prefect – coach gone missing.

“Alex!” Peter yelled into the whistling wind. Now that he was outside the soundproofed coach, he could hear the storm, and the screams continued on as students who’d decided to leave the second car where they all gathered were being attacked. _Serves them right_ , Peter thought for a moment, then shook his head to get rid of the dark thoughts. The evening was dark enough, and Peter needed light.

The tip of his wand smouldered the air around it with the _lumos maxima_ Peter had cast, but no dementors were in sight. The snowflakes blown in all directions appeared like a shower of faded stars, and even the unknown man’s red spark had gone out since being shot into the sky.

Peter looked around. If Alex had gone ahead, the wind had already covered his tracks. Peter couldn’t see the end of the bridge—the jinx that kept anyone from apparating near the tracks or _on_ the train was supposed to be five miles wide, and Peter really did not want to walk five miles at night, in a snow storm, with dementors stalking the skies.

This was a really stupid idea. He was going to die.

Having to shield his face from the painful pinpricks of snow, Peter could barely see anything ahead, nor could he hear Alex. The wind carried Peter’s calls far away from the bridge, dissolving it into incoherent whistles, as it did his spells too.

All of a sudden the light of his wand went out, and though he didn’t hear anything, Peter cast forth his patronus—just in time as a dementor glided towards him with lethal elegancy only to be stopped by a wall of blue brightness. It had a distinct shape of two wings spread but Peter didn’t have the time to dwell on it. He tried to put as much distance between him and the dementor as he could while channelling the spell, but under the thick layer of snow he couldn’t see the train tracks.

He tripped and his charm flickered out of existence. Peter ducked down as a last resort as if the dementor would miss him in the darkness, but instead all he achieved was that he lost his balance and fell backwards.

He didn’t land in the snow like he had expected.

There was no ground beneath him.

Peter fell off the bridge, with his back towards the dark abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual stuff find me @ gyunikum on twitter etc
> 
> train [ambience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXq2ziVkK38)


	2. Case of the Faulty Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of talking and some exposition. george and winnant appear. the mystery deepens.
> 
> infirmary [ambience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OITOAeMad3Q)

“ _Arresto Momentum!_ ”

Air still rushed around Peter as he slowly floated to the bottom of the valley, hovering above the rocky ground for a few brief moments before he was rudely dropped, the sharp edge of a rock nearly puncturing his side. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and allowed himself a terrified sob—he’d almost soiled his pants. They felt rather moist. He lay there in pain, unable to get his body to move for what felt like hours, and listened to the trickle of a nearby stream somewhere in the complete darkness and the rustling leaves of a group of trees he thought were dementors until he heard rocks crunching and clattering softly as someone walked up to him.

Peter reached for his wand, but with a sinking feeling, had to discover that it was gone from his frozen fingers. He must have let go of it while falling to his death.

“It’s alright Peter, you’re fine,” said a familiar voice. Peter shifted and looked up, only to recognize the stranger as the man from the train who was supposed to find Tommy. Without a word, he reached for Peter to help him up.

Involuntarily, Peter took a step back, even as the older man called for his wand with a soft _accio_ , and handed Peter it not half a minute later. With his precious wand back in the safety of his grip, Peter was about cast a warming charm on his soaked uniform, when the older man made a cancelling sorts of sound in his throat, and waved his wand at Peter’s robe with a wordless charm. Peter sighed in relief, feeling the frozen nerves in his fingers thawed.

“What happened?” Peter stuttered, teeth clattering. Despite the lack of vicious storm down there and the noticeably warmer temperature, Peter was still trembling—the claws of terror had yet to release him. Something struck him, and he jerked his wand in between them in defence. “Who are you?”

His demanding tone didn’t escape the unknown man as he drew his eyebrows together. For a heartbeat, Peter held his breath, awaiting a horrendous curse to jump from the tip of the other’s wand, straight at him.

That moment passed, and the man lowered his wand as he reached into his coat.

“The Ministry sent me. I’m an Auror,” said _Collins_ , Peter read from the card the man had just produced, but before he could focus on the rest of the Auror’s name, Collins slipped the badge back to its place.

“What—why?” asked Peter. As the evening had progressed, it seemed, he found himself getting more and more confused. Nothing made sense anymore. An Auror from the Ministry of Magic on Hogwarts Express? Dementors attacking innocent students the same day?

What else was going to be thrown at them? A dragon on the loose? A troll in the dungeons?

“It’s classified, I’m afraid,” Collins sighed with a bit of remorse visible on his face. “I was to—anyway, one thing led to another and I had to take the train.”

At the mention of Hogwarts Express, Peter looked up at the distant, white bridge, no longer locked in a storm. “The others—!”

“They’ll be fine,” Collins reassured him with a kind smile. “My colleagues have already arrived and secured the train. A few of us came down here to look for stray dementors. Just in time, as it seems.”

All of a sudden exhaustion washed over Peter like a devastating tidal wave, everything that happened since he’d fallen asleep came crashing down on him, and he found himself doubling over with a silent scream stuck in his throat choking him. He couldn’t breathe.

“It’s alright lad,” came Collins’ voice from beyond the veil of water and dizzying buzz that nestled into Peter’s ears. He felt so—weird, like he couldn’t explain what was actually wrong with him. Given, never in his wildest dreams had Peter imagined that something like this would happen to him in his whole life, much less while he was still a student.

He was more than ready to end this day and forget about it for the better. However, he doubted he and all the others on the train would be able to ever forget tonight.

“Have you eaten?” asked Collins then out of the blue, and Peter only had time to nod his head without even having realized the meaning of the question. “Well then. Take a deep breath.”

“Wait—!”

The darkened towers and goldenly glowing windows of Hogwarts came into view as Peter found himself on the side of the road by the long viaduct, feeling as though his intestines had just been pulled through a tight keyhole and smashed together into a pulp before being rearranged by an imp. With Collins’ hand still gripping his wrist and holding him upright, Peter bent over again and finally emptied the contents of his stomach on the grass.

Light-headed and dazed as though he’d been hexed, Peter saw muffled voices from around him come into view, and heard shapes, blurry, in the darkness, as Collins handled him with ease, but the last thing Peter registered before he blacked out was someone asking _is_ _Mr. Dawson alright, he looks awfully pale—Mr. Collins you can’t just force a student to apparate without proper training!_

Madam Pomfrey’s humming was as distinct as it could be. Actually, she sounded like a Fwooper. Peter had rarely had the misfortune to hear her singing as she bustled about, but being the first thing Peter heard when he woke up, he immediately knew that he was in the infirmary. The sheet pulled up to his chest and the too-fluffy pillow into which his head had sunk into were useless confirmation that Peter had indeed been taken to the Hospital Wing after he had graciously vomited everything he’d had last day in the presence of a professional Auror, not to mention some of his professors.

Merlin, he’d probably just singlehandedly kicked Hufflepuff back to the last place for the House Cup. The others were going to ostracize him.

He sprang into a sitting position, alarming the matron just as she pulled back the curtains of one of the occupied beds. Peter couldn’t see who was in there, but strangely enough, most beds were empty.

“Oh, now, now,” the old witch tutted and padded over to Peter’s bedside. “Don’t you be getting up so early. How are you feeling, love?”

Peter dragged a hand over his face. His robe and sweater had been taken off and placed on a chair next to his bed. “Like I’d been trampled by an Erumpent.”

Madam Pomfrey chuckled, and lightly patted the lump that was Peter’s knee. “I’ll get you something for that nasty headache.”

Peter released a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats. If only he’d just woken in his own bed, he could have easily convinced himself that last night was a nightmare, but the splitting headache, the lingering nausea and the hunger, not to mention his aching fingers told otherwise: Hogwarts Express had really been attacked by dementors. Peter had really broken the rules and left the train, endangering not only his own life, but all those who he could have protected for he had had responsibility as someone able to summon the Patronus Charm. He also had to be saved for his own idiocy.

What if Collins hadn’t been there to save him? Aurors would be scraping his remains off the rocks at the bottom of the valley.

He shivered at the thought. How was he going to focus on his classes starting from the day after tomorrow with these invasive thoughts swirling around in his head?

“Are you cold, love?” Madam Pomfrey asked as she handed Peter a tiny cup with only a spoonful of liquid swirling inside. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as he shoved it down his throat, trying his best not to pull a face.

“No, I’m fine,” he hissed at the awful taste, handing back the cup. His sleeves had ridden up his arms when he sat up, and the shiver had caused his skin to erupt in goosebumps as though he was cold.

The matron shook her head with a sigh and tutted again as she put her arms on her waist disapprovingly. “That thing that happened yesterday. It must have been horrible. Are you sure you’re fine?”

Peter nodded, not particularly in the mood to discuss last night’s events with Madam Pomfrey.

The matron, though, continued as if Peter was actively participating in her one-sided conversation. “And that Collins boy! Just because he’s an Auror now he thinks he can do anything he wants! It hasn’t even been five years when he still visited this very infirmary at least once a month! That rascal.”

“Um, Madam Pomfrey?” Peter chipped in quietly. “Can I leave now? I’m feeling alright. Really.”

The old witch stopped in her reminiscence and glanced at Peter for a long moment as she assessed his state. Peter remained hopeful until she spoke.

“Not yet, love,” she said, “Professor Dippet and Professor Winnant wish to discuss last night with you.”

“Actually, I think some more rest wouldn’t hurt—” Peter began, ready to get himself out of being interrogated by _both_ the headmaster of Hogwarts and the Head of Hufflepuff when the doors cracked open.

“Oh, here they are!” Madam Pomfrey chirped and turned to welcome the professors. Peter cast his eyes on the bed and stared at his hands. He not-so ostentatiously eavesdropped on the small talk the headmaster made with Madam Pomfrey, _how is Mr. Dawson feeling—physically well, but very shaken, I shall ask you to go easy on him_ , until he had to look up at the two elders standing by the end of his bed.  

Peter stuttered a respectful _professor_ and tried his best not to look away in utter disrespect. Here came the scolding.

Professor Armando Dippet was one of the, if not the most venerable wizards in all of Britain. A dignified wizard of many long decades lived, he headed Hogwarts with justice and equality, if not a bit distantly. His priority lay in the school itself, and punished those who were disloyal to both the school’s principles and rules—because of this tendency, Peter had never had to answer to him personally, diligent enough not to get himself on Professor Dippet’s maps.

As Head of Hufflepuff, Professor Francis Winnant was more involved with the students, and thus Peter too—he was as respected as Headmaster Dippet and just as well liked, though in a different way. His casual and somewhat droll character made it easy for his students to confide in him like one would in their uncle, though still with the appropriate amount of respect. Sometimes, though, he could be extremely awkward with a few students who he could not find common ground with—one of them was Peter.

Peter hoped Professor Winnant would buffer for him—he didn’t want to spend the afternoons of his remaining term slaving for Ogg like he was the gamekeeper’s assistant or something. Ogg had that half-giant Hagrid for such tasks.

“Mr. Dawson,” Professor Dippet began, and Peter held his breath, “I take it you are fine enough to talk about yesterday’s events?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter quietly, feeling fragile and insignificant in the headmaster’s presence. Professor Dippet nodded so as to urge Peter to continue, and Professor Winnant followed along, in a more encouraging way when Peter chanced a glance at him. “I—I actually don’t remember much. I’d fallen asleep and woke up just as the train came to a stop. The lights all went out and it suddenly became really cold. It couldn’t have been minutes until a—dementor tried to—to attack me. An Auror was there, his name was Collins I think, and he saved me.”

“So you can confirm Mr. Collins’ presence on the train?” Dippet cut in somewhat harshly.

“Y-yes, sir,” Peter nodded meekly. “He asked if I knew the Patronus Charm and—”

“You did,” said Dippet, interrupting Peter once again. “You’re taking Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts with Ms. Merrythought for extracurricular credits, yes? A curious choice seeing your… rather lacklustre achievements in the regular class.”

Peter opened his mouth. Was he being accused of—of something? “I—I thought it would help me get better.”

Professor Winnant sighed and shook his head lightly. Then he glanced at the headmaster. “Armando, please. If he hadn’t, who knows what might’ve happened?”

Professor Dippet dragged a wrinkled hand down his long white beard and gestured at Peter. “Continue.”

“We were told to stay put in one of the coaches—all of us. Some of us guarded the doors because others wanted to get out.”

“And where did Mr. Collins go?”

“He left the train because T—someone had disappeared.” Even if he mentioned Tommy’s name, Dippet wouldn’t really know who he was. There were hundreds of students at Hogwarts, and the headmaster was on first name basis with only a handful of them—not that Peter wanted to be part of that circle, the same way Alex never rose to Avery’s boasting of being a member of Professor Slughorn’s little club. “After an hour of waiting, some of the others became restless. It was chaos. And then—”

Faint commotion could be heard from outside the doors that were opened just a crack. Peter couldn’t make out the words, but he was sure he’d just heard George’s voice.

“Then?” Dippet asked as he turned his head back. Madam Pomfrey had left their side meanwhile, tending to the few other students in the infirmary.

“Then the train—it was like the dementors were trying to push us off the bridge. I—I don’t really know.”

“Yes, yes, you’d successfully used _Aggravatio_ on Ms. Hawkthorne’s luggage for some reason,” said Dippet, sounding as if he didn’t believe Peter—not about the dementors, but their apparent plan of knocking over the train car. It did sound somewhat unbelievable, even to Peter, and he had been there in the flesh.

“I thought, um—” he immediately regretted saying what he’d thought at that time, “weighing down the car would help…”

“Don’t be absurd, son,” said Professor Winnant sighing deeply. He didn’t seem angry nor about to punish Peter for using magic outside of school to save his life, but still his tone of voice made Peter feel guilty.

He was sure everything that had happened last night was true—he was one hundred percent sure.

“Mr. Dawson, I suggest you stop telling falsities,” said Dippet, placing his hands on the end of the bed, a disguised threat. “And the missing prefect coach? No one else had mentioned it but you.”

Peter blinked in confusion and drew his eyebrows together. Dippet’s accusation had taken him so suddenly, he could not speak a word.

“But—” Peter blurted out, ready to admit that he’d never mentioned the prefect coach before, but Dippet held up a hand to silence him.

“I ought to punish you appropriately for using magic outside the school and leaving the train without authorization, not to mention for telling lies to your headmaster, but I cannot ignore your show of bravery during such a—trying and dangerous incidence.”

Peter chewed on his lower lip as he awaited the verdict. The room around him was full of useful information that would’ve given his restless mind a relief, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than Professor Dippet and his humongous, deterring presence. It was not fair, the accusations, Peter had just wanted to survive the night, yet he was being reprimanded for protecting himself and others.

How could—Dippet be so illogical? How could Professor Winnant just go along and not see the obvious? Why did they not believe Peter when they all knew that the train had indeed been attacked? Peter couldn’t have come up with it alone—Collins would believe him. Collins was there. And Alex! Tommy too! They would vouch for Peter’s truth.

“In order to learn the full truth, Mr. Dawson will have to be subjugated to Legilimency tomorrow,” Professor Dippet said then. Madam Pomfrey blew her cheeks quietly, shaking her head in disagreement and disappointment as she narrowed her eyes at Professor Winnant as though urging him to change Dippet’s mind.

When the door closed behind the three of them, Peter allowed himself to swallow and exhale a long breath he didn’t notice he’d been holding. Thoughts were swarming around in his head, shrieking like a Fwooper as though with the intention of driving him insane.

How could this happen?

Just two days ago he was looking forward to returning to Hogwarts – he missed George a lot. His parents had no doubt been notified of the attack already, and though Peter knew they would be understanding and worried for him, he didn’t particularly want to talk to them about last night right now. At times they could feel a little bit overwhelming. He especially did not want them to blow it all out of proportion and take this up with the Ministry. It wouldn’t be the first time for his mother.

There was only one person whom Peter wanted to talk to, and it was the Auror from the train, Collins. Peter had to talk to him about last night—he had to make sure that what he remembered from that evening had actually happened.

It all had felt _so_ real.

That feeling of terror—Peter had never felt so scared in his life. It was _real_ , he knew it. He could still feel the phantom marks of the icy claws of the dementor on his shoulder.

As though his body remembered, Peter shivered at the memory. He would never forget the sight, the image of that gaping hole of a mouth ready to suck everything warm and bright from his mind. Like a shadow of dementor stuck inside his own mind, Peter felt himself wilting underneath it until he was shaken out of his stupor by George.

“So?” asked George with a usually infuriatingly casual tone, but now Peter was just relieved to hear it. Finally some semblance of normalcy in his life, George’s laid-back personality never failed to anchor Peter whenever he felt himself blown away by the winds of problems. “I wanted to visit you but they wouldn’t let me talk to you until Dippet did. What in Merlin’s balls happened?”

Peter furrowed his brows, starting to get used to feeling so confused. “Nobody told you?”

George shook his head with a frown. “Nobody is saying anything. Professor Stump had even taken five points from our house when someone started interrogating Tommy in the common room—”

“Tommy!” Peter exclaimed in surprise. “Is he alright?”

Now it was George’s turn to be confused. The frown didn’t leave his face. He nodded. “He’s—fine, I guess, but he’s been acting weird since he came back. He didn’t tell me anything either and I didn’t want to pry. I heard that Dippet asked everyone from the train about last night.”

Peter sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know George… I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Why? What happened?” George urged. He pulled the chair he had sat on when he arrived closer to the bed, and leaned in. “All I know is that the train had been attacked. Someone said it was a dementor, but—that can’t be, right?”

Peter lifted his head and looked into George’s eyes. “Not just one dementor, George,” he whispered, feeling his voice break, “there were dozens. It was a nightmare. And—and I remember everything so clearly but…”

George was more patient than the average Gryffindor student, but his thirst to know every bit of rumour and gossip sometimes tipped that certain scale, now resulting in him widening his eyes to urge Peter. “But…?”

Peter leaned close, not wanting anyone else to hear it. “Dippet accused me of lying just now. I’m not a liar.”

“I know,” George nodded, squeezing his shoulder. “There’s no reason for you to lie. Anyway—you don’t have to tell me now.”

“Thanks,” Peter sighed. “I need some time to clear my head. Would you ask Madam Pomfrey if I can leave?”

“I’ve got you,” George grinned, slapped Peter’s back and skipped towards the Nurse’s Office. Peter didn’t waste any time getting out of bed, but as he was about to lean down to put on his shoes, a sharp pain flashed through his side. The same one that he had hit against a rock when he fell to the ground.

Grimacing, Peter lifted his shirt to take a look at his injury. The rock only had bruised him in between two of his ribs, the area now deep green and purple.

He really had fallen off the bridge. He remembered correctly.

He wasn’t going crazy.

“What’s that?” George asked as he closed the office door behind him. Peter quickly released his shirt and got up.

“Just a small bruise,” he said. “Fell off the seat when the train stopped,” he half-lied. He avoided more pain as he pointed his wand at his shoelaces and made them tie themselves. He scooped up his sweater and robe. “Can we go?”

George nodded. “Oh, by the way, someone from Ravenclaw was looking for you.”

“Who?” Peter asked, walking beside George. Afternoon sun filtered through the windows, masking the sand coloured walls in yellow warmth—somehow, it reminded Peter of the Hufflepuff basement, his second home, even though the Hospital Wing and its adjacent corridors lacked the homeliness of Peter’s dormitory.

“Dunno,” George shrugged, “some seventh year. Haven’t seen him around.”

“Did he say why?”

“Not really,” said George. The empty corridor echoed from their steps, more so from George as he shuffled, not really lifting his feet. “But it’s not hard to guess. Nobody talks to you unless it’s herbology or arithmancy.”

“Thanks, you just blew your chance to ever get my help in either classes,” Peter rolled his eyes, swiping at George with a hand in instinct before he could stop himself. The movement caused his side to flare up in pain, but he masked it with a sharp intake of air.

“Speaking of arithmancy,” George mentioned, “how is Professor Winnant working out as your Head of House?” he asked, and skipped ahead of Peter a few steps before continuing. “It’s kinda like if Professor Beery was our Head.”

“You lot would be better at herbology,” Peter joked before going on to answer George’s original question. “He’s fine. At times, he can be a bit awkward, but he’s well liked.”

“I saw him with Dippet in there. Did you get in trouble?”

“No,” said Peter with more force than he intended. George didn’t seem fazed by Peter’s sudden outburst.

Peter had expected a lot of different scenarios once he stepped out of the Hospital Wing, and he prepared himself accordingly, but what he did not expect was to be ignored completely as if he had never even existed. The shortest route to the basement was through the Grand Staircase, and Peter had been ready to brave the crowd and floods of questions and requests to fill everyone in, but instead the other students refused to even look at Peter as though they were afraid to—interact with him. As though they were afraid of losing House points or risking punishment by admitting that he, and by that extent, yesterday’s event was real.

“Would you mind?!” George called aloud, pissed off, by the time a third student walked into Peter’s shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Peter mumbled, massaging his aching shoulder. He kept his eyes on the steps ahead firmly, not waiting for George. He just wanted to be in his common room as soon as possible, out of this awkward atmosphere. It was like the entire school had changed its opinion on Peter at the snap of a finger, and Peter had no idea why. How could rumours spread so fast? What even were these rumours?

Finally, out of the worst, at the top of the staircase leading into the basement, George turned to Peter.

“If anyone gives you a hard time, just call for me, and I’ll hex the wits out of them,” said George, giving Peter a one-sided hug.

“Thanks,” Peter nodded. “If you hear any rumours, will you tell me?”

George frowned slightly, but after a bit of hesitation, just hummed with a nod, and left with a quick goodbye.

It only took Peter a few minutes to reach the barrels behind which the Hufflepuff Dormitory was burrowed, but a myriad of thoughts flashed in his mind, mainly concerning his current situation. What was he going to do? What was going to happen to him now?

What had happened to him?

Peter only faintly registered the sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor and the wrong sequence knocked on the barrel, but before he could finish it and get doused by vinegar like he was some kind of intruder, a hand grabbed his wrist mid-air and lifted it out of the way so that another hand could knock the right password.

“Don’t recommend the vinegar-shower,” said Collins as he released Peter’s wrist, and his lips twitched with a smile. “Near impossible to get rid of the smell.”

“You’re—were…” Peter began, but couldn’t finish in his surprise. He knew the man from the train would not be anything like what Alex had implied, and there indeed had been some kind of familiarity in Collins’ presence.

The large barrel was wide open, revealing a warm, oval-shaped tunnel with candles alight on the wall, and at the end was another wooden door opened slightly—through the crack the familiar brightness of the common room streamed into the tunnel, coaxing Peter inside with the promise of the cosiness that only the Hufflepuff dormitory could provide.

“Once a Hufflepuff, always a Hufflepuff,” Collins answered with a lopsided grin. Peter found himself feeling dazed, but only until Collins’ face turned serious. “I wanted to talk with you.”

“I’ve already told Professor Dippet everything I knew,” Peter complained. He didn’t feel like discussing yesterday evening with the Auror anymore. He, too, would accuse Peter of lying, and if lying to Dippet wasn’t bad enough, lying to an Auror would no doubt result in dire consequences.

“I’m aware,” Collins nodded. “And I know that you were telling the truth.”

Peter widened his eyes, and a few minutes later found himself in one of the smaller bathrooms with Collins casting a soundproofing charm on the door of which on the other side at least a dozen other Hufflepuff students were trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Standing in the corner awkwardly like he was being arrested, Peter wrung his fingers nervously until Collins turned around, and grabbing him by his shoulder, sat Peter down on a stool. Then he leaned against a sink and loosened his tie.

“I need you to trust me,” Collins spoke then. In the bathroom’s lighting, he didn’t seem much older than any seventh year, and had he worn the school’s uniform, Peter would have mistaken him for a student. “But I know you won’t until I tell you why I was on the train to begin with. So I ask you not to say a word of what you’re going to hear now to anyone. Not even your best friend. Alright?”

Peter nodded, almost panic-stricken, causing Collins to let out a chuckle.

“I would prefer if we could at least shake on a binding contract to make sure you don’t accidentally run your mouth, but I’ve already been reprimanded for making you apparate along. Professor Winnant might have my head if something happened to you.”

Peter supposed he looked like he’d just seen a dragon, because he could almost feel the colour leave his face.

Collins sighed deeply, then inhaled. “There had been an attack in Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays. A fifth year from Hufflepuff, Calla Archer was the victim.

“D-did she—” Peter gasped. He didn’t know Calla personally, but he’d seen her around alright, as she was part of Hufflepuff’s Quidditch team.

“No, she’s fine. She’s being treated at St. Mungo’s,” Collins reassured. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to relax. “The Ministry sent me here to investigate the attack. Originally, I was to travel to Hogsmeade via the Floo Network, but due to some—” Collins coughed then, “hm, miscommunication, I couldn’t. It was a last minute change that I boarded the train, which also fits my theory that whoever planned it could not call off the attack.”

“The dementors?” Peter asked. “They were controlled?”

“Of course,” Collins nodded. “They cannot leave Azkaban on their own. Every single one we’d rounded up had been found to be under heavy spell.”

“But why?” Collins shrugged. “Did the others—was everyone on the train safe?”

“Aye. Fortunately, no one has suffered any irreversible damage physically. Mentally, however…” he sighed, not elaborating. Peter didn’t need him. “Peter, can you tell me what happened after I left the train to look for your friend?”

“Did you find him?” Peter asked instead. If Collins was exasperated at Peter for ignoring his question, he didn’t show it.

“I did. Now, please tell me what you can remember.”

Peter recalled the same things he’d told Dippet and Winnant in the infirmary. He didn’t add nor did he omit anything. He did however mention the missing prefect car, which caught Collins’ attention, but he didn’t interrupt Peter like Dippet. He listened to Peter patiently until Peter got to the part where Collins had slowed his fall from the bridge.

“Professor Dippet claimed I was lying. About the dementors rocking the coach and the missing prefect car,” Peter ended it, trying not to sound as though he was pouting like a scolded child. It did hurt him, though, to have been accused of lying by two of the wizards he looked up to. “He said I was the only one to say this… Why did the others not mention it?”

“Peter,” said Collins, pushing himself from the sink, and sat down next to Peter on another small stool. “You’re not going mad. I was there too, and the prefect car hadn’t been there.”

“Then why? I don’t understand,” he shook his head, hoping that it would help him understand. How could he and the others both tell the truth when they remembered the events differently?

“The snow. Did you not find it strange how there was not a trace of snow at the bottom of the valley? How it was falling seemingly only on the bridge?”

Peter wrinkled his forehead in confusion, but didn’t verbally reply. He had not, actually, because he’d been busy falling to his death and then trying not to piss himself from the relief of not becoming a pancake, but in hindsight, it had been definitely obvious.

“All students had been taken off the train, and into the snow after the Ministry arrived. You said you’d only left the train for around five minutes before you fell. Why did you fell?”

“A dementor attacked, and I tripped,” Peter repeated. The image was as clear in his head as it could be.

“What if I told you that the snow altered and erased some of the students’ memories?” Collins theorized, catching Peter’s full attention. “And you—you only remember one part faultily, because the snow didn’t have enough time to alter your memory properly, and erased only the most recent images at that time—namely, _who_ pushed you off.”

“ _’Who’_? No,” Peter backed away, “no, no, it was a dementor,” he said, and jumped to his feet to put more distance between himself and Collins. “There was nobody. It was dementor. It’s just your theory…”

“Look, son,” said Collins, standing up as well, and his choice of words did not match his face, his antics nor his overall aura. He looked like a teenager trying to act like an adult. Before either of them could speak, Collins, probably to try to convince Peter why his theory was right, and Peter about to continue his refusal to accept the probability that his memories were truly faulty, a knock came from the door which was then opened without a moment’s notice.

Behind Professor Winnant, a dozen pair of eyes tried to catch a glimpse at whatever was going on inside the bathroom, but then the door was closed behind the tall man, reactivating the soundproofing spell.

“Mr. Collins, there’s been another—” Professor Winnant began, then halted when he noticed Peter. He opened his mouth, but Collins was first to speak.

“I’ve told him about Ms. Archer’s attack. What happened?”

Professor Winnant hesitated only for a short moment, taking a measured glance at Peter before looking at Collins.

“Another student has been attacked.”


	3. Case of the Mysterious Attacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor peter just can't catch his breath. dumbledore appears!

Peter had done enough talking for the rest of the week in the two hours since he’d woken up in the infirmary. He was sick of talking, sick of being told to recall the attack, like repeatedly poking a wound that was trying to heal. He wished he could just forget the whole evening for it was far more bearable than to know that his memories were altered, that what he thought to be real was, in fact, a lie.

How could a wizard continue on while knowing that he could not trust his own mind?

Peter couldn’t deal with the thought of it. He loathed Collins for planting the idea in him—the idea that what Peter had seen – or he thought he had seen – never even happened. That when he was out in the snowstorm on the bridge what he believed to be a dementor was something else. Some _one_ else.

Someone had attacked Peter on the bridge and – probably – pushed him off with the intention of killing him. To silence him.

Peter had seen someone who he should not have. But he just—couldn’t remember.

If only he could just remember, he would be able to help catch the culprit. He could help Collins and the Ministry learn why the train had been attacked. He could— _help_ everyone learn the truth. The others who suffered that night deserved to know what had actually happened, and they deserved justice.

Maybe, maybe Peter being brought under Legilimency was the only way for him to help. The thought did not bring much relief to him, but it birthed a plan of sorts that helped Peter prepare for it and, though never leaving the matter, assisted him in looking at the incident from a detached, un-biased point of view.

He just needed George in the plan for it to work properly.

Peter was going to do just that, and though it was still early evening by the time he’d taken a bath after Professor Winnant left with Collins, the curfew had been moved two hours forward without any explanation much to the students’ dismay. Peter knew it was because of the attack, but he didn’t mind the lockdown—he had another way of contacting George.

He went to bed when it was still considered early, but it worked out in his favour—neither of his two other roommates were in there, still lounging in the Common Room after Peter had brushed all questions off with a quiet _I can’t talk about it, bound by contract_ , which seemed to do the job. Hopefully, no one else was going to bother him anymore.

Sitting cross-legged on his own bed, feeling like he could fall asleep any moment should he put his head on the pillow – despite sleeping through much of the day – Peter was delighted to see that all his possessions had been brought down and put in their respective places—maybe his friends felt bad for him.

Slipped between two of the most boring chapters of the most boring book a Hogwarts student could own – History of Magic, thanks to Professor Binns’ profoundly boring presentation – was an empty piece of parchment frayed at the edges and folded into two with such a sharp edge as if it had been resting like that under tons of books for a hundred years. Its other part had been torn off, currently in George’s possession. Unless he’d managed to lose it again.

Peter grabbed the nearest quill, dipped it in a bit of ink and began writing.

_Need help re. last night. Must not tell anybody. Up for it?_

As Peter watched the ink disappear just the moment he finished scratching his plea for help, he felt a pang of guilt for bringing George into the whole mess. He hadn’t been there, he hadn’t gone through what Peter had, and Peter would have liked it to stay the same—nobody deserved what happened on the train a day ago, but he needed another set of eyes—an outsider who would observe the incident from a different direction and see important details missed by those who were there.

He knew George would never pass such an opportunity, but he still felt obligated to give him a chance to decline. Still, the guilt did not leave him even as George’s most predictable answer appeared on the parchment in his near-impossible-to-read handwriting.

So Peter noted down much of what happened on the train, paying significant attention to the details; the approximate number of dementors, the missing prefect coach, or the snowstorm that only seemed to affect the bridge. He also wrote down Collins’ theories, after all he was a certified Auror who’d gone through the rigorous examinations and tests to become one.

 _That’s… mad—_ came George’s brief but telling reply. _I wonder how the snow could alter the memories. Weather-Modifying Charms and…_

Peter waited a moment before George continued.

_I dunno. Do you think we might find something in the… Library?_

Peter grinned and penned quickly— _it’s time for you to finally introduce yourself to the place known as the Library, mate. Tomorrow?_

He didn’t know when Dippet was planning to take him to the Legilimency session, but he would come up with a lie if need be. There was only so much Peter could load onto George.

_After breakfast. One can’t just read books on an empty stomach._

_Alright. Meet you in the morning—_ Peter wrote, waited until his letters were absorbed, and folded the paper back before slipping it into the History of Magic textbook. The charmed parchment had been a gift from Adam to his eleventh birthday just after Peter had gotten his letter of acceptance from Hogwarts. At that time, Adam was seventeen years old, just about to be finished with school, and had decided that he no longer would have any use of the two-way paper outside his academic life. Whence Adam had gotten the magical object was always a mystery, but Peter no longer cared about the origins of his most prized possession—besides his wand. He could never thank Adam enough for the parchment.

 

One of the best things about the fact that the Hufflepuff dormitory was located in the basement was that it was protected from the outside elements more so than the Ravenclaw or Gryffindor towers for example. Not once had George complained of having to resort to a few drops of Sleeping Draught almost every night, a sentiment which Peter could not share. Sometimes his dormitory could be a little too bright, and a little too warm, but at least it was not nearly as sinister and dark – according to Tommy whose picture had been painted by Alex – as the Slytherin dungeon. However, it didn’t mean that Peter had never woken up in the middle of night mostly from exam-induced stress or the snoring of his roommates, but it could be said that Peter’s room was perfect for sleeping.

Tonight, he had almost expected to wake up, which he did around three in the morning. He had had not been given any Potion for Dreamless Sleep, though he should have asked Madam Pomfrey for some, and so the nightmares had started almost immediately, and Peter had found himself falling off the bridge at least a dozen times before he was woken up from having slept too much earlier that day.

The Common Room was empty and dark until he stepped up to the hearth inside which a small fire was lit upon his arrival. Above it, the portrait of Helga Hufflepuff smiled down at him with understanding eyes. The room was no less warm and welcoming than it usually would be, but with the enchanted windows now black, the birds silent and even the flowers sleeping, it was a different kind of calm. Now there was serenity that no room in Hogwarts during the day could experience. It had its own charm. There were a handful of sleepwalking ‘Puffs known in the House, but none of them ever left their bedrooms for they would need to resort to magic to open their doors. Peter was completely alone, without any risk of being disturbed by someone else. He couldn’t imagine himself feeling as safe as he did now in the other three Houses’ dormitories.

Another feature that was not uncommon for Hufflepuffs was having midnight snacks. Most of the house-elves in the Kitchens were not particularly a fan of this nightly habit, though during daylight hours they were more than happy to provide food to any student asking with respect and kind-heartedness. However, they were most fond of Helga Hufflepuff – who’d first brought house-elves to Hogwarts in order to save them from abuse – and her House, a friendship most evident by the close proximity of the Kitchens and the Hufflepuff dormitory. Thus should a Hufflepuff student crave something to snack, they need only walk out into the warmly lit corridor and stroke a certain pear on the huge painting that functioned as the entrance to the Kitchens.

That is exactly what Peter planned on doing, but his plan went up in smokes the moment he stepped out the tunnel through the barrel.

Sneaking around in Hogwarts at night was unadvisable at best, and Peter guessed security and night patrols might have been doubled due to the recent attacks, but that didn’t faze him as he looked down the corridor at the empty stairs leading up to the ground floor.

He had fought against dementors and survived a deathly fall. No sneaky blighter was going to get the better of Peter Dawson, Scourge of Dementors, and Saviour of Hogwarts Express Passengers. He was no Calla Archer who only excelled on a broom in the air – though Peter hardly knew more about her – nor whoever had allowed themselves to be attacked in broad daylight. Though his wand was not the best suited for duels – sturdy alder wood coupled with unicorn hair tended to produce mild magic – Peter could hold his own in a fight if he focused solely on protective spells. Should he be attacked, his defensive strategy had never failed him yet.

The attacks must have had a connection. The _why_ intrigued Peter more than the _who_ at this point, but true it was that the two went hand in hand. No crime was to be understood without one; if he knew the _why_ , the _who_ was going to reveal themselves, and if he knew the _who_ , figuring out the _why_ was child’s spell.

He would make an awesome Auror, if Peter did say so himself.

Quiet, but hurrying footsteps scared Peter out of his pyjama pants the next moment, and he would take this moment of cowardice to the grave with him. His Auror future would have to wait.

He peeked out from behind the corner down the corridor, and noticed two shadows cascading down the left side of the stairs – the rest of the staircase was hidden by the corner wall at the end of the hallway – and before Peter could see who the two strangers were, he scampered towards a smaller corridor leading to the other Kitchens entrance and the house-elf living quarters just behind him. The barrel door had been closed after Peter stepped out and he didn’t want to risk getting caught by knocking on the wood to get back inside.

He knew he should have, but it was too late.

Whilst the main entrance to the Kitchens was closer to the basement stairs, and required one to tickle the pear on the painting to open, this other door, used by the house-elves and known only by Hufflepuffs needed no special treatment to pass. In there it was quiet and empty, the elves having retreated to their quarters for the night, though as was the case after every day, they did not forget to set out a few plates and bowls of snack for hungry Hufflepuffs. As appealing as the large pretzels were, Peter stayed glued to the door, listening for any sound.

When a muffled conversation came, Peter took the risk of opening the door a crack to hear better. He was close enough to the Hufflepuff entrance to make out the words, but stayed properly concealed from whoever was standing right in front of the barrels by an inconspicuous wall.

Peter held his breath.

 “Had the poor boy not been through enough yesterday?” said Professor Winnant whispering furiously, but with such desperation which Peter had never heard from their Head of House. If he didn’t know it was Professor Winnant’s voice, he would not have been able to match the tone and the person—it was so unlike their arithmancy teacher. “The other students are already spreading rumours, and I would hate to see Peter face difficulties because of it.”

“We need to catch the attacker as soon as possible.”

Much to Peter’s surprise, it was neither Professor Dippet nor Collins who spoke, but Professor Dumbledore. Though he did teach Peter Transfiguration each year, the aged wizard was closest to the Gryffindor students—closer than their own Head of House, Professor Stump was even. Though his involvement with the investigation was not a surprise, Peter was still confused as to why Dumbledore was there for him. “And if Mr. Collins is right, the boy is our best lead. We need to know what he’d seen on that bridge.”

Professor Winnant sighed so loudly that even Peter could hear it. Then panic settled in when the password was knocked on the barrel door and Peter realised that he was not in his bed where the two professors were expecting him to be.

He could not sneak in after them. He knew he should not be wandering outside – even for snacks – because of the curfew, so he couldn’t just walk up behind them and greet them with an innocent smile saying that he was hungry.

Peter was done for. He was _so_ done for! If he hadn’t been punished yet, now he definitely would be. Merlin, what had he been thinking?

When he believed the barrel was closed, Peter was about to step outside with a horrible plan forming in his head – sneak into the Common Room and pretend to have been in the bathroom – when suddenly he was pushed back inside the Kitchens. As he glanced down only to see a house-elf pull at his pants, Peter heard Dumbledore speak:

“I’ll wait outside. It’s better if you fetch the boy alone.”

Unfortunately, in the midst of the scuffle, Peter must have let out a loud enough sound in his surprise that caught the attention of both teachers.

“Shush!” the house-elf hissed, yanking at Peter’s pyjama pants. “Come this way.”

“What?” Peter whispered, but let himself be pulled down the length of the tables, a mirror image of the ones in the Great Hall, just a floor above the Kitchens. He looked around, trying to keep up with the house-elf to avoid walking into stray pots and making any more ruckus.

“Rolsy will help you,” said the elf quietly. “You need help, yes? Rolsy knows a secret way.”

Relieved to hear that he was being rescued from sure death by shame and punishment, Peter didn’t focus on where the elf was taking him until a wooden door was closed behind him and he found himself in a dark storage room.

Peter felt the pull on his pants leave, and when he took a step, he nearly tripped in a heavy crate sitting inconspicuously and innocently by his feet. Reaching for his wand to summon some light, Peter cursed himself for leaving it in his bedroom. Figuratively speaking. He would never use a Curse. Could a wizard Curse himself?

“So, is it in here? The secret passage?” asked Peter quietly, perking his ears meanwhile. He could hear at least one of the professors entering the Kitchens. “Rolsy.”

Something clattered in a pitch black corner of the storage room, but Peter could barely see the tip his own nose. He couldn’t cast a single _Lumos_ without his wand. As though he’d gone blind, Peter took a few clumsy steps with his arms stretched in front of him when the sound of scratching hit his ears. He came to a halt and stopped breathing.

The scratching noise did not cease. Rolsy was mumbling in a deep voice.

Despite the lack of cold, a desperate thought of a dementor rooted Peter’s feet to the ground, and all strength left his legs. He wanted to slowly back away and leave; answering to Professor Winnant had suddenly become as pleasant a thought as a cup of tea in the afternoon compared to this.

Why did he leave his wand in the dormitory? He’d heard of the attack yet he still thought he would be fine without any means of protection. His own over-confidence was going to be his demise.

The door burst open as if a whirlwind had just crashed into the room, lighting all the candles one by one in a blink of an eye. Peter was pushed out of the way, his back colliding with a jam-packed shelf, and a blinding light flooded the storage room before all returned to normal.

When Peter opened his eyes and brought his arms down from having shielded his head, the first thing he saw was Rolsy’s unconscious body lying on the floor, before someone stepped between him and the house-elf. Peter looked up.

“Mr. Dawson, care to tell me as to what you are doing in the Kitchens storage when there is a curfew being enforced?” asked Professor Dumbledore as though he had just caught Peter walking down a corridor past curfew instead of saving him from a – possibly lethal – spell cast by a – possibly charmed – house-elf.

“I—uh—I’m really sorry professor,” Peter stuttered, ready to spring into a litany of apologies, gripping the shelves behind him with each hand for his weak knees not to buckle. Another set of footsteps and a quiet gasp forced them to look at the newcomer standing in the door. Peter had never seen Professor Winnant this surprised. When the wizard noticed Peter, his eyebrows turned towards scolding, but something else caught his eyes.

“Albus, look,” urged Professor Winnant, looking past the Transfiguration teacher. On the wall behind Rolsy’s body were crude numbers carved into the stone. “It’s the attacker again.”

“It can’t be the house-elf,” Dumbledore concluded, glancing at Rolsy. He flicked his wrist. “Of course. She’s been charmed.”

“What do we do?” asked Winnant, stepping next to Peter. He grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him up. Peter almost let out a scold; it was not like he was going to run away. He had nowhere to run, but towards the inevitable. Then, he would cross that bridge when he got there.

“We proceed with the original plan.” To Dumbledore’s credit, he did look apologetic. It could only mean the Legilimency session Dippet had talked about in the infirmary. “While the memories are still fresh. Francis, would you take Mr. Dawson to my classroom while I deal with Rolsy here?”

Outside, in the Kitchens corridor hurrying towards the basement stairs, Professor Winnant did not release Peter’s arm as he practically dragged the boy after him.

“Professor, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Peter started, thinking the sooner he addressed the Erumpent in the room, the sooner the awkwardness would leave them.

“We will get back to this later. We’ve got more urging matters at hand,” snapped Winnant, and neither of them said another word for the rest of the time it took them to reach classroom 3C on the third floor where Dumbledore held his Transfiguration classes. “Sit down there, and no more wandering.”

Peter obliged quietly and made a weak attempt at looking around the classroom rather than at Winnant as the teacher stifled a yawn and flicked his wand at the nearby candles. Their warm flames made the previously unpleasant room friendlier, more similar to its daylight counterpart. Still, Peter was reluctant to glance at the dark corners, expecting an unreasonable dementor to pop out any moment. The Patronus charm was on the tip of his tongue, fingers crawling and twisting for the soothing touch of his stocky wand.

There was a brazier alit at the back of the classroom by the window arch, its tracery illuminated warm orange, though all Peter could focus on were the dancing shadows that appeared on the glass as a swirling mass of dementors just outside the window. He jerked his head away and tried to single out the faint, deep rumbling and the occasional pop of the fire in the brazier—it was the only thing Peter was sure in at that moment. Even Winnant’s presence felt flimsy, like smoke and shadows that would evaporate if Peter tried to catch it with his eyes.

That was, until Dumbledore arrived. The dark brown rickety floorboard creaked under his steps as he walked along the aisle in the middle between rows of desks, his robes swooshing quietly as he passed Peter. The two professors mumbled to each other with their backs turned to Peter, as if they were not planning to rummage through his mind in just a few minutes anyway.

Peter didn’t want Dumbledore inside his head. It was the only logical explanation as to why he was there instead of Dippet—Winnant was a great wizard and a smart man, but only when it came to arithmancy or anything that had to do with numbers.

Dumbledore was even a greater wizard than Hogwarts’ Headmaster himself. No doubt he was practiced in the art of Legilimency—wait… Numbers.

Numbers on the wall of the storage room. The attacker. Winnant had immediately known that it was The Attacker the moment he noticed the numbers—which meant the previous two incidents had most probably come with the same clues. Was the attacker playing with them? Depending on which House the second victim belonged to, the attacker might have been targeting Professor Winnant—both Calla Archer and Peter were Hufflepuffs, and left numbers behind that only Winnant, Head of Hufflepuff and professor of numbers, could decode.

“—wson… Mr. Dawson, is there something on my face?”

Peter shook his head and let out a gasp as Dumbledore bore holes into his eyes just by looking at him. “N-no, professor.”

Dumbledore sighed, and gestured for Peter to get up. “Come now, the sooner we finish, the sooner you can go back to your dormitory and get some sleep.”

When Peter passed the teacher’s desk as he followed Dumbledore, a sense of dread invaded him. He’d never been to Dumbledore’s office – to which they were clearly headed – and the prospect of someone seeing all his thoughts and memories scared Peter witless. He didn’t want to, he really, _really_ didn’t want to go up that flight of stairs and into that office behind that door a lot of students in Transfiguration class found themselves staring at and wondering how such a great wizard’s office was furnished, but for Peter there was no other option, he knew.

“I don’t want to,” said Peter quietly, coming to a halt at the bottom of the small set of stairs. “I don’t want to sleep.”

Dumbledore, as if having expected Peter to react like this, glanced at Winnant.

“We’ll get you some Potion for Dreamless Sleep,” he said as he looked at Peter, but directing it at Winnant. “Now. It’s alright.”

Peter didn’t have much time to look around as Dumbledore gently, but urgently pushed Peter onto a plush armchair by the wall. The door was closed, and the support Professor Winnant’s presence had offered Peter suddenly vanished. Dumbledore lit only a few candles.

“What can you tell me about Legilimency, Mr. Dawson?” asked Dumbledore as he leaned against his desk. His attempt at trying to sound casual and make Peter feel more comfortable didn’t pass him, but Peter still couldn’t shake off the feeling of tension.

“Umm, it’s the act of—it allows the caster of the spell to see into the layers of the mind of his chosen victim.”

“Good, good,” Dumbledore nodded, satisfied with Peter’s answer. “It is a very advanced Charm, but as it is an invasive practice, we do not teach the spell itself in Hogwarts, only the theory. Do you know what follows?”

Peter nodded, trying to relax his muscles. He barely noticed that his grip on the armrests had tightened.

“Very well. I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Dawson, I do not believe Mr. Collins’ assumption that there was some kind of memory altering snow to be plausible, but—and especially after your… incident in the Kitchens, it’s safe to say that the attacks are connected,” Dumbledore began, stroking his short, greying beard. He shrugged out of his robe and set it neatly on the desk behind him. “You, and two other students who left the train that night, could serve with important clues about the identity and purpose of the attacker.”

The mention of the two other students caught Peter’s attention. Dumbledore was probably referring to Alex and Tommy, both of whom had left Hogwarts Express in search for help. However, Peter found it strange that Collins nor Dumbledore saw the Auror as a source of information like they considered Peter, Alex and Tommy.

Had the snow not affected Collins?

“I want you to relax,” Dumbledore was saying, “or it might be painful. For the both of us. I don’t care about myself as much as I care about your well-being. You’ve suffered more than enough in the past two days.”

Peter bit down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling visibly. He was scared, not of Dumbledore, but of what he was capable of, and no matter how hard Peter tried to will himself to let go and ignore it, he just couldn’t.

He vaguely registered Dumbledore saying something else, but then suddenly confusion settled into Peter out of nowhere as though he’d been hit by a Confundus charm. He found himself staring into Dumbledore’s eyes, unable to blink. His sight blurred almost immediately and, like a waking nightmare, Peter could hear the whistling of Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross Station, feeling genuinely surprised at how deserted it was. Then, in a fragment of a moment, he was looking up at Alex who was swaying back and forth in the door of his compartment.

_“Can I ask for a wee favour?”_

_“Yes,” said Peter, standing up to leave the coupé. Alex followed him diligently until they reached the vestibule of the other coach._

_“Avery and Lestrange were being cunts—”_

_“Alex.”_

_“—to Tommy. Want to teach them a lesson.”_

_“No.”_

_“C’mon Dawson. Tommy’s your friend. He’s my friend. Do it for him. You won’t have to do anything, just distract someone while I get a thing.”_

_“You mean steal.”_

_“Borrow.”_

_“And what do you want to ‘borrow’?_

_“A thing. It’s in the prefect’s carriage. It’s supposed to amplify spells. I want to use it for—”_

_“Where are you even getting this from?”_

_“Some bloke told me about it.”_

_“’Some bloke’—do you hear yourself right now, Alex?”_

_“It’s for the greater good.”_

And then the train came to a halt, and the dementor came, and Collins came, and Peter was begging for someone to let him out of there. Collins then apparated Peter from the bottom of the valley to Dumbledore’s office behind classroom 3C, and disappeared without a trace as though he was never there to begin with.

When Peter’s sight returned, Dumbledore was stroking his chin, seemingly deep in thought as he paced the room. Professor Winnant had arrived while Peter was being forced to relive a memory he had not remembered, but now it fit inside his mind like a missing piece of a puzzle. The arithmancy teacher was staring ahead without blinking, and never had he looked so confused and downright hopeless before.

Peter didn’t like it, not one bit. He desperately desired someone’s reassurance, from anyone available, for the hold of emptiness and icy claws still remained wrapped tightly around his lungs, causing him to breathe shallowly as he tried to calm his racing heart. He’d never expected there could be anything worse than facing a dementor—but just the thought of facing one without a wand was excruciating, like it was the Curse itself.

“Why is it…” Dumbledore then spoke, slowly and quietly, as he turned towards Peter, “…that you remember everything so differently? What is so special about _you_ , Mr. Dawson?”

“I—I—” Peter gaped. He leaned backwards and backwards with each step the transfigurations teacher took in his direction, until Peter was nearly pushing his body into the material of the armchair.

“I’ve looked through that Slytherin boy’s head, and not even one tiny fragment did he possess of this vital information.”

“It’s—I didn’t remember this until now,” said Peter, trying to explain himself so he could avoid Dumbledore’s wrath. The professor did not seem to be angry at all though, more than that he appeared rather confused much to Peter’s surprise.

“Did he tell you anything else? About the object?”

“No—nothing,” Peter shook his head so violently it felt as though he was being shaken by someone else.

“Albus,” came Winnant’s quiet voice, “what object?”

Dumbledore, upon hearing the question, closed his eyes and exhaled before stepping away from Peter. He looked as though he was hesitating over telling Winnant whatever he knew about this _object_ , but then another sigh signalled the triumph of one side. He then raised a nonchalant hand in Peter’s direction—a moment later, Peter heard a swarm of invisible wasps embracing his head, overwhelming all sounds that came from outside this bubble of bumbling bees. He saw Dumbledore explain, and whatever he said caused Winnant’s face to become pale as if he was just told that he would have to face a Hungarian Horntail alone. Then Winnant said something back, and they talked and talked until the constant buzzing lulled Peter to sleep.

 

It was a strange morning. For starters, Peter felt rejuvenated and fresh. He nearly jumped out of bed with a smile on his face, stopped only due to the strange looks Ethan – one of the two fellow sixth-year boys Peter shared a bedroom with – was giving Peter. He asked if Peter was alright, voice tiptoeing around a subject Peter wasn’t entirely sure in, but after seeing Peter shrug and jump to his feet enthusiastically, he seemed to drop it. Secondly, no one else other than Ethan – and Killian, the other roommate – approached Peter differently. As if the train attack had never happened to begin with.

A part of Peter was furious—how could they not care that their fellow students, even their friends from the same House had been attacked by dementors? However, by the time Peter was making his way to the Great Hall for breakfast, he had to admit that this was way better. Even though it was just a pretence.

This fine morning and its peace lasted until breakfast. The Great Hall was fairly filled with early birds since classes were only starting a day later, and so when George sleepily slipped into the hall, he made a beeline for the Gryffindor table before he realized himself and flopped down on the bench next to Peter. Without so much as a _‘good morning’_ he helped himself to a plate of everything he could see with his eyes opened just a slit.

Peter watched with mild disgust as George shovelled porridge and beans onto a toast, and downright shivered when George started munching on it.

“So,” said George with his mouth full. Two Hufflepuff girls just across the table frowned and slid down the bench. “What were you going to tell me?”

“About what?” Peter asked, leaning closer to his friend. There was enough background noise so that their voice went unnoticed.

“About last night, duh. Something about Professor Dumbledore and Winnant? By the time I read your message in the morning, it was nearly gone.”

Before Peter could express his utter confusion as to what message George was referring to, a platter clattered on the stone floor, drawing much of the Great Hall’s attention to the Gryffindor table. There, Peter didn’t expect to see Tommy to be in the centre of the commotion. Tommy was looking at someone with a furious expression, but from his seat, Peter couldn’t see who’d stepped over the line.

“Piss off!” Tommy called out loudly, and even the fake birds charmed onto the ceiling of the Great Hall were staring after Tommy as the Gryffindor student stormed out, unceremoniously stopping just outside to decide where to go.

Peter glanced at George, the mysterious message he’d apparently sent his friend nothing but forgotten.

“Aren’t you gonna go after him?” asked Peter, blinking at the other boy in puzzlement.

George blew air from his nose loudly, pursed his lips and continued his breakfast, turning his back towards the double doors that led out into the Entrance Hall.

“Actually,” George spoke after a few quiet minutes. After Tommy’s outburst, the entire hall seemed to be quieter. The sky on the enchanted ceiling had turned overcast from the gloomy mood of the students. “We’ve had a fight. A bad fight. I wanted to know what happened to him on the train, because he was just so—different, you know? As if it wasn’t Tommy. I didn’t want to pry, but I pushed him too hard—you know how I can be sometimes…”

Peter scoffed agreeing. “I do.” He glanced at the doors, a small part of him hoping to see the old Tommy step back. “He doesn’t have many friends…”

He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say. He felt bad for Tommy.

“No, he does not,” George sighed, chewing his lips. There was concern written all over his face. “Just us, and that Alex guy from Slytherin. Haven’t seen him ‘round either. Argh!”

Plates and glasses clinked and clattered as George hit the table with a fist, exhaling his frustration.

“Hey!” called a girl nearby, but turned back to her friend just after a second, deciding that it was better to ignore the two boys.

Peter put a hand on George’s shoulder, feeling it to be his responsibility to help his friend, just like George helped Peter yesterday.

“I wish I was there, on that blasted train,” mumbled George under his nose, the genuineness in his voice surprising Peter into a momentary stupor. “At least, that way, I would be able to imagine what you two went through. It’s just—”

“George, it’s okay,” said Peter, curling an arm around George’s shoulder to pull him closer into a side-embrace. They both looked at the wall, temples touching, and in that moment of sincerity, the unintelligible chatter of the students and the clinking of silverware stepped back to give way for the gentle silence of their long friendship. “Tommy… I suppose… just needs some time. And I’m—I’m just confused. I’m glad you weren’t there, because I need you _here_.”

George masked his sniffle with a loud intake of breath through his nose, Peter feeling the rise of his shoulders as his chest expanded. George nodded quietly.

“You’re right,” said George, pulling away slightly. He cast a glance at his half-eaten breakfast, but didn’t touch it. Peter was relieved—mostly because seeing George discouraged and doubtful of his own self was greatly disconcerting after having known him for years, but also because Peter couldn’t look at that swill on George’s plate be consumed. “Let’s go to the Library now.”

“Huh?” Peter leaned back. “Oh, right. The memory-alerting snow.”

George scoffed with a smile, and led them out of the Great Hall. Right after them, a Ravenclaw boy stood up, and followed them outside into the Entrance Hall, and then to the left towards the Grand Staircase in the direction of the Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will introduce the last hogwarts student from dunkirk. 
> 
> also, since this fic is set closer to 'fantastic beasts' (12-13 years later) than the harry potter story, i picture dumbledore played by jude law, instead of how he was depicted in half-blood prince. just cause.


	4. Case of the Academic Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. longest chapter at 6,7k. gibson appears! the investigation continues. peter realizes that he's forgetting something important.

 

“Still there?”

“Yup.”

“Bloody boggart balls… Fine. You know what? We should come back at night.”

“They haven’t lifted the curfew yet.”

“You just sneaked out last night.”

“To the Kitchens. It’s right next door.” Peter felt like he was forgetting something.

“Wasn’t that when you said you heard Winnant and Dumbledore outside your dorm?” Peter tipped his head to the side questioningly. “And? Did you hear anything?”

“No, I don’t think so. I went back to sleep.” He couldn’t remember. But he had a feeling it was important. George wasn’t much of a help, because by the time Peter had gotten back to his bed and started a long message on the two-way parchment for George to see in the morning, he’d already forgotten much of what he intended to share.

When a shadow passed by the entrance of the Restricted Section – probably one of the maintenance house-elves – George and Peter went back to their books, stealing glances at the locked door from their base of operations every now and then.

They had been considering getting into the locked part of the Library because they couldn’t find anything on memory-altering potions in the books available to them. Not a single mention in any textbooks, tomes, volumes as if such works dealing with such charms and potions had all been taken off the shelves for this very reason.

“Using the Library is hard,” George whined, resting his chin on a thick tome. “I’m never coming back.”

Peter flicked his wand, sending a few books floating back to their places on the nearby bookshelf.

“You don’t need to be here,” said Peter, tossing himself onto a chair across from George with a defeated sigh. They were never going to find anything remotely similar to what they were looking for if they didn’t come up with a new plan. They could spend days scouring over books in the entire Library – near impossible even with the help of various spells as there were hundreds if not thousands of tomes housed in Hogwarts – but still they would most likely never find anything useful. The Restricted Section might hold the answer, but getting in there – even as a sixth-year - was going to be mightily difficult. It was restricted for a reason.

“No way I’m missing out on this,” laughed George as though Peter had just told him the best joke he’d ever heard. “I want to know everything.”

Peter set his elbows on the desk and leaned close to George. “Didn’t know you were into merpeople,” he grinned. George blinked at him in confusion, and when Peter took a quick glance at something directly beneath them that was not the table itself, George pushed himself away so quickly from the book he was resting his head on – _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ – that he quite literally fell over in his chair.

Peter tried to stifle his laughter while George rolled around on the floor helplessly, but he quickly went quiet when his friend, pulling himself up by grabbing the edge of the desk, stared at something behind Peter.

“You can ask Professor Merrythought for a slip,” said a quiet voice, coming directly from behind Peter.

Peter whirled around, nearly falling out of his chair just like George had done not a minute earlier, and lifted his head until he could see who it was.

A Ravenclaw student was standing by their table. The black curls of his hair were as soft and mild as his entire demeanour. Peter immediately recognized him as the boy from the train who had, at one point, volunteered to guard the other door of the coach where all the students had been herded in together.

“Oi, it’s you,” announced George with slight surprise. The other boy’s gaze flickered to George while Peter fixed his chair.

“Who?” he asked.

“The one who asked about you.”

“I’m Gibson,” said the Ravenclaw student. He hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to—thank you.”

“For what?” Peter and George asked at the same time, resulting in Peter leering at George.

Gibson seemed somewhat uncomfortable between George and Peter’s friendly banter, but if it bothered him, he didn’t voice it out loud.

“For what you did on the—train,” he said, lowering his voice at the mention of Hogwarts Express. As though he, too, was still afraid a dementor would suddenly ambush him from a corner. “If I hadn’t seen you cast the Patronus charm, I wouldn’t have thought it to be possible...” he trailed off, but Peter didn’t need further explanation.

He felt rather—compelled to tell the other boy that there was no need to thank him, Peter had been acting under the orders of his instinct to save his own skin, and under whatever Collins had told him, but something stopped him from being so honest with Gibson.

For a handful of moments, none of them said anything. Peter scratched the back of his neck with a bashful laugh, not knowing how else to react. Gibson seemed as though he wanted to say something else – as indicated by his lingering presence – but didn’t know how to do so.

George was first to break the silence that had been filled with nothing. The Library was empty save for them, because students were putting off having to visit the place until classes started anew the next day, and even the librarian was gone for the moment.

“What did you mean by asking Merrythought for a slip?” George wondered aloud.

“Oh,” Gibson said, taking a cancelled step towards the table, as though he’d changed his mind mid-movement. Peter, feeling awkward just by looking at the other boy, shifted over with his chair to give Gibson enough space to sit down on the seat next to him. He didn’t. “Professor Merrythought gives entrance slips to the Restricted Section for those who attend her Advanced DADA class. You do, too, don’t you?”

His last question was directed at Peter. He nodded, eyes wide. “I do! How did you know?”

“I take the same class.”

If George had been drinking that moment, he would have nearly choked on his drink. Now, though, he nearly choked on his own saliva as he started coughing to mask his laughter. Peter, feeling heat rush to his cheeks, ducked his head.

“It’s—very early a morning class,” said Peter, trying to save the last bits of his dignity. Gibson just tipped his head as if to shake it, and smiled forgivingly.

“I can help. If you want,” he offered. Peter was about to decline – he didn’t want to include anyone else in his personal quest to find out the truth – but Gibson continued. “With the class, I mean. Whatever you two are doing—I’d rather not get involved.”

George grunted in a tone that indicated his agreement, but other than that, he didn’t say anything else. Peter knew his friend too would not want anyone else in their mission.

“Brilliant,” said Peter with a smile that came easier this time. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Dawson.”

Gibson returned the smile. “I know. Everyone’s talking about you, and what you’ve done on the train.”

Before Gibson left, he told George – because Peter was still puzzled as to why exactly he was the main subject of people’s conversations – where Professor Merrythought could be found for the next few hours, and wished them good luck on their _project_.

“What did you do on that train?” George blurted out, looking part scandalized, part awestruck as though his best friend was some kind of widely celebrated hero of the wizarding world.

Peter lifted his shoulders, entirely clueless. “I just—cast a few spells, is all. And helped that Auror, Collins, round up everyone.”

Feeling like they had nothing else to do in the Library for now, George was about to close the book on magical creatures that he’d been thumbing through absentmindedly, when Peter’s eyes caught something. He quickly jammed his hand inside the book, surprising George – and himself – with his quick, though unreasonable, reaction.

“What?” asked George quizzically, and watched Peter with furrowed brows as the other boy flipped the book in his hands to examine what exactly had caught his eyes.

He poked the page and set the book down, flipping the dog-eared corner as a reply to George’s question. “ _’Swooping Evil’_ ,” he read the entry distractedly. Something—something was off about this particular page, but Peter could not quite put his finger on what exactly it was.

“What about it?” George scratched his head, trying to read the entry upside-down. “Barely anything there. It doesn’t even mention _why_ its venom is dangerous.”

 _Typical,_ Peter thought, George was indeed more likely to start reading a list from the bottom than to have read that particular book and managed to get to almost its end within the half hour since he’d first opened it. It made sense to Peter that George would just skim over the entry—the nearly blank page stared back at Peter solemnly, with the art of the winged creature swooping up and down in the empty space. Surely someone else had marked the page, but who?

Peter stared at the Swooping Evil circling around on the page, and just after a minute of staring at it, he noticed a curious pattern. It seemed as though the charmed artwork, sentient just enough to perform a few actions chosen by its creator, was trying to tell Peter something.

George’s eyes widened when Peter produced his wand from his robe folded over the back of another chair, and pointed the tip at the Swooping Evil.

“ _Revelio_ ,” Peter whispered, and after a faint, blue spark left his wand, the Swooping Evil’s drawing twisted into a small, spiny cocoon. Above it, written ink began to reveal itself, style different from the printed letters, but placed as if it was till part of the list. “ _’Its venom…’_ this part is scratched out…” Peter mumbled and continued reading. “ _’… listed only in manuscript.’_ ”

“What does this even mean?” George asked, taking the book to read it himself. Peter patted his wand with an index finger, deep in thought. “Who would even write something like this into a textbook?”

“Someone who…” Peter trailed off, rubbing his chin, “…wanted to find the same thing as us?”

“Or he knew someone would come snooping around, and left this fake clue behind to confuse us,” George suggested, mildly unconvinced of his own idea even, much less of Peter’s.

“Your conspiracy theory sounds just a wee crazier. We’ll go by mine,” Peter decided on a whim.

“Alright.”

 

Getting the entrance slip from Professor Merrythought turned out to be more difficult than Peter had thought it would be. Actually, when Peter found her in her office – all the way up on the sixth floor, which nearly put Peter out of commission around the fourth floor up – and told her that he would like to gain access to the books in the Restricted Section, she looked as though she’d already seen through Peter’s intricately embroidered sob-story about wanting to get better at her subject the moment he stepped in. For a long moment, Peter was horrified that she would instead put him out of the Advanced class – and his misery, what had he been thinking when he decided to sign up for it? – but she just smiled at him and tried to help him improve in a less self-torturing way.

“Did you get it?” asked George just a moment after the door behind Peter closed. The Hufflepuff boy inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled as though he was still trying to catch his breath from having to walk up six floors with legs used to taking the basement stairs just one floor down most of the time.

Peter lifted a grey velvet-covered book; _Difficult Dark Arts Defence for Dummies._

George’s laughter echoed all the way down to the ground floor, while Peter forgot about having to walk down the same amount of steps, busy mumbling about over-enthusiastic Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers questioning his level of intelligence in such a non-insulting way that Peter actually felt more insulted now than if Professor Merrythought would have just told him what she thought of him straightforwardly. George was never going to let him live this down until the end of school.

By the time they reached the Entrance Hall at the bottom of the staircases, people were streaming into the Great Hall for it was lunch time, and though Peter wanted nothing more than to have _Difficult Dark Arts Defence for Dummies_ out of his hands – he’d rather have people gossip about his presence on the attacked Hogwarts Express from two days earlier than the fairly obvious fact that he was utterly hopeless in DADA—despite actually being one of the first ones to successfully summon his Patronus on said train – George’s stomach turned into a leader when it spoke, and upon the realization that they’d spent all morning in the Library, it spoke of food, right that instant.

“What are we going to do now?” George mused aloud, sitting by the Gryffindor table this time as it held more empty seats than the Hufflepuff table at the moment. Behind Peter the Slytherins were more abundant but the only Slytherin Peter had ever talked with, Alex, was not among them. At the very end of the Ravenclaw table, he could spy Gibson sitting alone, but he was too busy focusing on his food and a newspaper to notice Peter and George’s arrival. It wasn’t like they would suddenly become pals anyway.

“I suppose we should go back at night,” said Peter. Something told him he was not very good at sneaking around past curfew, but they had no other choice. He wasn’t hungry, feeling as though everything would just come right back up. He wasn’t as a glutton when it came to food as George who could eat whenever and wherever he wanted, but rarely did Peter feel so uncertain to the point of being unable to look at Hogwarts meals.

He buried his face in his palms, digging fingers into his hair with an irritated sigh. He was all out of ideas—it felt like as though he’d reached a dead end, and the way he’s come from was no longer passable. Gone were his days as a clueless, innocent student whose biggest problem was to figure out his profession after school—and it was all thanks to the attack on the train.

How could the others deal with it so smoothly, so easily? For most part, Gibson looked as normal as those who were not there, but he hadn’t gone outside with Peter, or Alex, or Tommy, and—no, Gibson would still not understand.

Only Alex and Tommy would, but Alex Peter hadn’t seen since the train, and Tommy was—well, he was definitely trying to cope with the incident in his own way. He seemed worse off than Peter, and quite frankly, George should be by his side instead of following Peter around in the hopes of being part of the Hogwarts Express Attack, even if indirectly—George liked to be part of everything, as indicated by his love for rumours. Not for a single moment did Peter feel like he was being exploited by George, rather—he didn’t want his best friend to be part of this _one_ thing, for it was inexplicably horrible, and Peter felt as though he was rotten to the core, as though when the dementor had touched him on the train, it transferred some of its darkness, its void into his soul and—Peter felt that no longer was he the Peter Dawson who had said goodbye to George Miller at the beginning of the Christmas Holidays.

“Pete? You alright?” came George’s concerned voice. Peter blinked out of his trance, and looked around before settling his eyes on his own plate. He’d managed to eat a few spoonsful, but he already felt completely stuffed. “You look like someone just petrified your cat.”

“Yeah, I’m just—” Peter began, chewing on his words for a second, “I feel like I’m not in control anymore. The past two days just—I don’t know...”

George tipped his head to the side with a genuine expression on his face. He was trying his best to imagine what Peter was going through, and to Peter, that was all that mattered.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it. Together.” George reached across the table to pat Peter’s shoulder. Peter nodded absentmindedly.

What would he do without his best friend? He hated the thought of facing _this_ alone, and—and maybe the two of them were still alone.

“Oh,” said Peter suddenly, mouth agape, an idea sparking to life in his mind. “ _Oh._ ”

“ _’Oh’_ what?” asked George, his fork coming to a halt right in front of his mouth, also agape.

“I’ve got an idea,” answered Peter, fumbling for a moment. He grabbed the book Professor Merrythought had given him, left George at the table gaping like a beached Grindylow – sans the fangs and tentacles – and hurried towards the staircases. Down in the basement corridor, the portraits mounted on the walls stared after him – one of them even called out on Peter for breaking the rule of _no running in the corridors!_ – and he nearly ran into a group of fourth-year witches who were just leaving the Hufflepuff common room to head for lunch. They still shrieked and giggled when Peter was already making his way across the common room, ducking down not to hit his head into the ceiling of the tunnel that led to the boys’ dormitory.

Inside his empty room, Peter threw his most boring book on his bed and carefully removed a small square from his two-way parchment, not caring about further shrinking it. He could barely remember its original size when he got it nearly five years ago—before him, Adam had used it as well, giving away pieces of it to friends he wanted to keep in touch with, and Peter was no different. Now, the parchment was only as big as two of Peter’s palm placed next to each other, with a long stripe torn off of its length.

He slipped the piece of paper into _Difficult Dark Arts Defence for Dummies_ , and hurried back to the Great Hall to catch Gibson.

He caught Gibson, a glimpse of his back as the Ravenclaw student exited the Great Hall and headed for the courtyard outside. He caught up with the seventh-year boy right outside the entrance.

“Hey,” Peter greeted, and took a quick breather, leaving Gibson to look at him in confusion. Peter took a quick glance around before he handed the book over. There were students all around them, some within earshot. Even the walls had ears and eyes. “Uh, thanks for letting me borrow your book. It helped me tremendously. I—uh, the tenth chapter, about long-distance communications was especially interesting.”

Gibson hesitated, but Peter pushed the book into his hands, and he grabbed it automatically. He stared at the tome that was definitely not his in bewilderment.

“Well,” he said slowly, still trying to grasp the situation, “you’re welcome. Do you… perhaps need more help?”

“Yeah!” Peter exclaimed and swiped at his forehead. His breath came in puffs as outside it was still cold, the courtyard covered in brilliant white snow, and Peter had gotten just a bit too warm running up and down in his robes. Now he was starting to cool off, and he shouldn’t remain outdoors any longer unless he wanted to get sick. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon? In the—Library.”

To Gibson’s credit, he didn’t need too long to catch up on Peter’s hidden message.

“I’m free after five o’clock,” said Gibson with a nod, and raised the book in the air. “And thanks for the book.”

Peter pulled his robe tighter around his body as he watched Gibson’s retreating back for only a few moments before he turned on his heels and hurried back inside the Entrance Hall. There, he met a George who looked on the brink of launching into a series of questions right there and then with at least ten other students to witness, but Peter was quick to pull him to the side towards the stairs as if they had a destination in mind.

“Where did you go?” asked George excitedly.

“Gave Gibson a piece from my messaging parchment.”

“What, why?” George exclaimed in surprise in the middle of a corridor, earning a few curious looks. Peter pulled him along, ducking his head.

“He can get us into the Restricted Section without trouble. He’s good at Advanced DADA, so Professor Merrythought will give him a slip.”

“You didn’t even know he was in your class until this morning,” George deadpanned.

“He offered to tutor me.”

“Fair enough.”

 

All through the next day, students and professors alike treated Peter as if he would break at the slightest mention of Hogwarts Express or dementors. Ethan and Killian acted especially cautious around Peter, like he was a timed spell about to go off any moment. It frustrated Peter to no end, and his refusal to talk to his two in-House friends made both boys keep their distance. So much so that they rather sat somewhere else in classes, leaving Peter to sit alone in the classrooms where more seats were present than students in his year. Only when Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had classes together did Peter sit with George, causing his friend to get strange looks from both Houses, but that, too, went on for the duration of their Charms class.

Apart from George, the only other person who treated Peter no differently than anyone else was Professor Dumbledore at Transfigurations class. It was their last class for the day, and Peter found himself becoming increasingly nervous just at the thought of their plans for afternoon. He couldn’t help but go over the details over and over again, coming up with new ways their plan could backfire each time: what if Merrythought caught on Gibson’s lie and refused to give him the slip? What if they were going to get caught once in the Restricted Section? What if the first manuscript of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ was not even there?

What if the Swooping Evil venom lead was just a fluke? What if it was Peter—he wanted to find something that would point him in the right direction so much that he saw clues in everything. He wasn’t playing with his own reputation anymore—he could easily cause George and Gibson even to get punished, and that Peter could not—would not allow for himself.

He should have kept George away from it. He should have just followed Tommy’s example and distanced himself for time being while he waited for this _thing_ to blow over, and then things would return to normal—right?  

He should have just let it go, and let Collins and the Ministry deal with it. It wasn’t Peter’s task to find a criminal who walked the hallways of Hogwarts—and Peter normally wouldn’t have, if not for the events on the train.

The attack had changed something in him, it was clear as day. He felt as though he had to prove something to someone. Never before had Peter felt inclined to do so, but when the dementor had attacked him—Peter felt that he was defenceless.

He didn’t want to be defenceless. Not now, not when both the muggle and the wizarding worlds were at war. Again, who was to say that young wizards and witches like Peter were not going to be affected by it?

After all, Hogwarts had been compromised already.

Were they safe at all?

Not anymore. Dementors could be knocking on Hogwarts’ door any time, now that it was possible for them – or someone to get dementors – to attack Hogwarts Express, and Hogwarts students. And what were the professors and Ministry doing all this time? Chasing around some mysterious attacker who had struck three times—

No. Twice. There had been two attacks. Calla Archer and someone else.

Why did Peter think there had been three?

Something was not quite right. Not with the school—not with Peter. He was forgetting something.

A slam resounded in the classroom, startling Peter out of his inner monologue.

“Mr. Dawson,” said Professor Dumbledore loudly. Peter quickly glanced around to orient himself—he was still in Transfiguration class, in classroom 3C, and everyone was looking at him as if they hadn’t been stealing those damned glances at him throughout the entire bloody day.

The room was filled with students, brightly illuminated with fire, and the brazier in the back corner was lit, as were the small, hanging ones by the windows to give warmth. Outside the sun had already set. Peter felt dizzy as a sense of familiarity washed over him.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Peter shook his head, “what was the question?”

Dumbledore smiled, but it was no kind smile at all. “Clearly, you were paying attention. Could you then, perhaps, tell the class what the five Principal Exceptions in Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration are?”

Peter sucked in his lips and took a deep breath. He chanced a quick look at his textbook, but it was open at a chapter on human transfiguration. His notebook similarly failed to help Peter. He turned a page in his textbook, looking for some kind of help, but Dumbledore’s voice caught him.

“You’re not going to find it in there.”

Peter raked through his memory. Exceptions. How many were there? Five, yes. He knew this.

“The first one is—” what was it? What could not be made out of thin air? “—food, because… food… consists of organic matter, and organic matter cannot be created from nothing. Food can only be multiplied if the caster already possesses an amount, or summoned by apparition from a pre-known location.”

“Good,” Dumbledore nodded, and gestured for Peter to continue. The class listened silently.

“The second exception are wands, because a wand only works if its materials—wood and a magical substance, are given with consent by the donor.” It was like a poem, or a long incantation. As Peter continued to recall more parts of his buried knowledge, the rules burst out like a suppressed fountain. “The third one is money, because metal arts is a branch of goblin magic, and human wizards do not possess this ability. The fourth exception is soul removed from its vessel, because a soul is not a substance and thus cannot be transfigured—and the fifth one is the exact reproduction of a living being, because an identical being can only be present on different timelines. If more than one of said living being appears on the same timeline, an anomaly will form and swallow the excess number of individuals. This is why the usage of Time-turners are bound by hundreds of laws.”

Even Dumbledore kept quiet for long minutes.

“Heard that, class?” he asked then, and if Peter hadn’t been so nervous for Dumbledore’s response, he would have missed the slight smile the professor sent his way. “This will be in your N.E.W.T. test next year. I expect you to list off all five exceptions even if you’re roused from your worst nightmares.”

Quills scraped on parchments loudly as the class tried to scratch down whatever they could still remember of Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration learnt of at the beginning of the year. Peter felt a little smug, and for the rest of the class, he only half-listened to the material Dumbledore was trying to make them memorise.

Thankfully, the next time Dumbledore called Peter out was after class, when Peter was about to leave the classroom.

“Mr. Dawson, I’d like to exchange a few words with you,” rang Dumbledore’s voice that never took no for answer. Peter, upon hearing the request, dropped his head, closed his eyes, and stood aside from the door so that the others behind him could pass him. Killian sent him an encouraging smile before leaving with Ethan in tow, and soon enough – too soon – only Peter and Dumbledore remained in the classroom.

Peter turned around and shuffled up to Dumbledore’s desk. “Yes, professor?”

Dumbledore assessed Peter from his seat behind his desk. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m—” said Peter, taken aback at Dumbledore’s sudden inquiry. “I’m alright.” He wanted to ask why Dumbledore bothered asking for Peter’s condition when he clearly didn’t care about him that much, but he knew better than to question the wizard. Peter was just a sixth-year, and he was confused now more than ever.

“What about nightmares? Do you have them?”

Peter shook his head. “No. Madam Pomfrey had given me a potion for dreamless sleep.”

Even though he could not remember the exact moment of the nurse handing the potion over to him—all Peter remembered from the Hospital Wing was a muddy conversation with Headmaster Dippet and Professor Winnant, probably about the dementor attack, and then a small chat with George before they left the infirmary. Yet there the Potion for Dreamless Sleep was on Peter’s bedside table, mysteriously, just another reminder that Peter was forgetting something.

Dumbledore nodded. “That’s good to hear. Mr. Dawson, the reason I asked you to stay behind is because I’d like to apologize for my rash behaviour earlier in class.” Peter widened his eyes, and only a sliver of his rational thinking stopped him from gaping at his professor. Dumbledore continued, looking straight into Peter’s eyes. “I’ve noticed that the other students started treating you—hmm, differently. I believed that this may have been the reason for your lack of attention.”

“It’s fine, professor,” Peter stuttered, not knowing what else to say. He’d never thought he would ever have a two-sided conversation with Dumbledore outside class, but then again, a lot of strange things have happened since Peter came back to Hogwarts. This was just one added to the list. “It’s—in fact, it bothers me a lot, the way the others treat me. They think I’m some kind of—I don’t know—”

“I’m sure Professor Winnant will be more than happy give you remedy for anxiety should you need it. Have you talked with him about the—” he tipped his head sympathetically, “train incident?”

“Just in the infirmary with Professor Dippet,” mumbled Peter. “Mr. Collins questioned me after that.”

“I see. I suppose, you’ve told them everything you know, but if anything new comes to your mind, don’t hesitate to seek them—or me.”

Peter nodded timidly, wrinkling the sleeves of his robe. He was supposed to meet Gibson in the Library soon, and before that, Peter would have liked to dispose his books and quills in his room, maybe even get a bite from the Kitchens. He didn’t know if Gibson had succeeded in acquiring the permission slip for the Restricted Section, because the Ravenclaw student didn’t use the two-way parchment Peter had given him—maybe his message was too cryptic, but he had been expecting someone from Ravenclaw would figure it out easily.

“Can I ask a question?” Dumbledore’s gesture was generous-looking. A part of Peter was still refusing to accept that the wizard was not pretending to be nice to him. “Are the attacks linked? The th—two students and the train.”

Dumbledore kept quiet upon hearing the question for so long that Peter started to panic. “According to Mr. Collins, it might be the case. He is currently away in Hogsmeade pursuing a lead, but I believe he will be returning to Hogwarts soon.”

“A-ah,” said Peter simply. He hefted his books up under his armpit. Dumbledore’s request to stay behind had come so suddenly that Peter hadn’t the capacity of mind to place his belongings on a nearby desk.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together, and pushed his chair from the desk to stand up. “Very well. I shan’t keep you any longer. Go on, enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thank you, professor. Goodbye,” said Peter quickly, and turned tail before Dumbledore would decide to interrogate him some more. Peter had more than enough of it in the past three days, and if he was going to have to repeat the same things over and over again for the rest of the semester, he would definitely go crazy. It was worse than when people only came to him for help with arithmancy and herbology.

By the time Peter made it to the Library, it was ten minutes past five o’clock, and the place was considerably more lively than a day ago now that classes started. Gibson and George were waiting for him already at their previously occupied desk close to the locked entrance of the Restricted Section, huddled over the table looking all kinds of suspicious.

“So, we’re looking for uses of Swooping Evil venom?” asked Gibson by way of greeting before Peter could launch into a string of apologies for being late.

“I filled him in on the important parts,” said George by way of explanation to Gibson’s question. “Where in Merlin’s balls were you?”

While Gibson stared at George for his very colourful usage of the most famous wizard’s private parts, Peter sat down on the chair closest to him, and exhaled deeply. His legs were aching as he had tried to hurry without outright running – he attracted enough attention as it was – and his mind was still reeling from his earlier conversation with Dumbledore. To Merlin, the atmosphere could not have been more awkward than that. Lucky was it that Peter had only one class a week with the wizard.

“Dumbledore wanted to talk after Transfiguration class.”

“About what?” asked George, but Gibson looked just as curious. Peter shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just the train stuff,” he said curtly, not wishing to elaborate. George got the message, while Gibson still kept quiet, knowing his role in the group well enough. “Did you get the slip?”

George slipped out a rectangle of parchment from his pocket and waved it in the air.

“Brilliant,” said Peter with a satisfied smile. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wanted to know more about dementors,” shrugged Gibson, his face largely expressionless. Peter could see the tension in his shoulders though, no matter how nonchalant and unaffected the Ravenclaw boy pretended to appear. He could fool George, but not Peter, because he was there too, and he felt the same.

“What happened to not wanting to get involved?” Peter asked suddenly, surprising Gibson. The seventh-year stared at him for a moment, then shrugged again. He seemed like he was torn between being honest and telling a white-lie. It didn’t matter to Peter, so he continued; “I mean—we’re just glad you’ve decided to help us.”

Gibson smiled. “I like helping people.”

George cleared his throat. “How should we do it? Should all three of us go in?”

“No, that would be too noticeable,” Peter mused. “I think Gibson and I should go. George, you stay here to hold the fort, and—uh, do you have your two-way paper on you?”

“No, why should I?” asked George, wrinkling his forehead in confusion. He didn’t get the connection between _holding the fort_ and having Peter’s magical paper on him.

Gibson let out a small sound to get their attention, rummaging through his robe. “I’ve got the one you gave me. I wasn’t sure what it was…”

Peter chuckled, and pulled out his own piece. “It’s a charmed parchment. Whatever you write on one piece,” he explained, “will appear on the other parts too. I gave you one because I thought—”

“You’re part of the team now,” George beamed. “This is so thrilling!”

Peter and Gibson winced, pulling their shoulders up as they both hissed at George to keep it down. After that, they quickly discussed the plan – George would use Gibson’s paper to message Peter if there was trouble outside so he would have time to hide – and then Gibson left to fetch the librarian with the entrance slip. Peter and George waited anxiously, pretending to work on their homework with a randomly chosen book.

“I’ll be fine from here,” said Gibson to the librarian when they arrived. “Thank you, madam.”

“Lovely,” said the chipper witch as she opened the doors. “Just holler if you need anything.”

Gibson waited until the librarian left, then before he could motion for him, Peter was already on his way. He slipped in with one last nod sent in George’s way, and then he was alone with Gibson in the empty Restricted Section. Faint, blue darkness governed this unused part of the Library, and dead silence roamed in between the tall, dark bookshelves that put Peter on edge.

“Okay,” sighed Gibson, bracing himself for whatever was to come. “Where do we start?”

Peter whipped out his wand. “ _Accio Fantastic Beasts—_ hey—!”

“Have you gone mad?” Gibson hissed, keeping Peter’s wand pointed at the floor. “You’ll just end up toppling over the shelves.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Peter mumbled with a pout, but slipped his wand back to its place, having to agree with Gibson. They had to do this _manually_ without the librarian’s help. “We need the first manuscript. Maybe some book on advanced potions?”

Gibson nodded. “I’ll start looking from here,” he suggested, implying that they should separate. Peter sighed, and using his wand to summon some brightness, he left for the very back end of the section. He walked past rows of bookshelves packed heavy with tomes about dark magic and subjects not appropriate for younger students. Just the sheer amount of such rare and valuable books baffled Peter, but he continued on until he reached the last row. In between them, where the wide aisle ended, was a large window with intricate stained glass that was now barely visible in the darkness of the early evening, and the white light of _lumos_ coated Peter’s vicinity in cold brightness. Looking back, he could see just a sliver of Gibson’s light hidden behind rows upon rows of ancient bookshelves.

It was Peter’s first time in the Restricted Section, and the gloomy atmosphere weighed down on his shoulders heavily. Had he visited this place right after the dementor attack, he would have been convinced that one would seep through the shadows and ambush Peter without mercy. Even now, though Peter was less nervous, he still felt as if someone was watching him, waiting for the right moment to strike. The musky air slowly absorbed Peter’s confidence, as if the dust particles each were miniature dementors circling around him like vultures ready to suck all happiness right out of his chest.

The Patronus charm danced on the tip of his tongue, but Peter braved through his own fears, trying to persuade all sides of him that _lumos_ was enough to drive away the darkness and everything that crawled in its black abyss.

He busied himself with looking at the spines of various books and tomes, each and every one of them so different from the others. Peter found himself searching through works on amortal beings, until he reached dark creatures. Though the books perched on the shelves were innumerable, Peter restrained himself from using the summoning charm.

He resorted to a less effective, but simpler spell.

“ _Scrutatus: Swooping Evil,_ ” Peter whispered, slowly waving his wand up and down one side of the bookshelf, hoping that such a simple seeking spell was all that he actually needed. As he examined the rows of books one after another, he occasionally revived the spell until finally, after what felt like an hour of hopeless scouring, the ball of light on the tip of his wand began to gain intensity as Peter neared a particular book. He waved his wand around a few times to make sure he’d found the right book, and with a deliberate flick of his wand, he slipped it out of its slot.

It was a tattered notebook sandwiched between two properly bound tomes on various creatures native to Southeast Asian regions. The notebook itself held no titles nor written information on its spine nor on the front and back.

Peter was reluctant to open the book. He stared intently at the ragged leather, silently willing it to reveal its secrets.

“ _Aparecium._ ” Nothing. “ _Revelio._ ” Nothing. Peter cycled through all spells and charms of similar nature known by him, but none revealed anything out of ordinary. Still, something kept nagging at the back of his mind—it couldn’t be this easy, could it?

Against his better judgment, Peter reached down to open it. After all, why would this particular book be cursed? There were hundreds of books dealing with dark arts and illegal spells available to be read by students – with the proper permission – for academic purposes.

“Don’t touch it.”

Peter’s hand froze in the air. He slowly turned his head to the side, not believing his ears. It couldn’t be him, could it?

But it was. There he was.

“Mr. Collins?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god tommy and farrier should be appearing soon.


	5. Case of the Curious Clues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter continues where the previous chapter left off. further clues. the mystery slowly building and getting more complicated.

 

Peter stared at Collins in shock. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, Collins’s sudden appearance, or the fact that the notebook could have been cursed.

There was a deep crease between Collins’ eyebrows, and his expression was tense. “Drop the _Mister_. It makes me feel old.”

“I’m—”

Collins sighed and waved a dismissing hand. “I see you’ve found the first manuscript.”

They both glanced at the nameless notebook. There was some kind of realization rising in Peter’s chest, but he didn’t know of what yet. It was a dreadful feeling that Collins’ presence only slightly relieved. He couldn’t yet focus on the feeling of confused irritation that Collins’ arrival had brought.

“Is it cursed?” asked Peter. Then something struck him like a lightning bolt. “Hold on… the manuscript—how do you know about it?”

Collins lifted his own wand and gently whacked Peter on the nose with it. Peter jerked both hands to his face. “Who do you think wrote into a Library book without the librarian noticing it?”

Peter gaped at the Auror. “ _You_?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Collins deadpanned. “Book’s a trap. It was set by whoever attacked the train. He was expecting to be found—which proves my theory of the memory-altering snow true.”

“Why?” asked Peter, confused. “What’s the Swooping Evil venom got to do with it?”

Collins rolled his shoulders, and stepped right next to Peter, their arms brushing. He didn’t seem like he was going to answer Peter’s question, but whatever he was planning to do to the notebook needed some preparation.

Peter was beginning to feel antsy, waiting for something to happen, when the Auror cast a non-verbal spell that Peter didn’t recognize, and suddenly the leather-bound notebook burst open on its own, as if an invisible torrent of air had just rushed in through the unopened windows, flipping the pages before slamming the book shut in just a few brief seconds.

Collins exhaled. Peter still felt the wind rush in his ears.

“Should’ve become a Curse-Breaker,” Collins remarked, mostly to himself. Peter watched him closely as he hesitated for a tell-tale long moment before touching the notebook with his finger, then flipped it open with one swift flick of his wrist. He looked at Peter. “This is Newton Scamander’s personal notes from the time when he was writing _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. He recognized that properly diluted with water, the Swooping Evil’s venom possesses memory-altering properties by erasing bad memories.”

Peter looked between Collins and the page full of handwritten notes on the Swooping Evil, back and forth, back and forth, until he nearly got himself dizzy.

“It was…” Peter trailed off, still trying to comprehend what this new information was implying to him so clearly, “purely by chance that I stumbled upon the book… George was reading and…”

“It wasn’t,” Collins shook his head. Suddenly, he grabbed Peter by shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. “Peter, you need to be careful. You might be in danger. Don’t go anywhere alone—”

Something cracked woodenly, either the floor or the shelves. Peter was reminded in that moment; he wasn’t alone in the Restricted Section with Collins.

“Is the attacker here?” Peter whispered, his voice wobbly as he whipped his head around, and jammed his wand into the darkness, producing an exceptionally strong _lumos_ upon his sudden emotional turmoil.

“No,” floated Collins’ answer to Peter’s ears with a barely audible pop, as he stared at Gibson’s squinting face. The sound reminded him of the time when Collins had forced Peter into apparating to Hogwarts.

Gibson slowly pushed Peter’s wand out of his face. “Are you okay? I heard you talking—I thought there was someone else…”

“But there is—” started Peter, but when he turned around, Collins was gone, as though he’d never been there. “What—?”

Slightly confused, but mostly terrified, Peter stared at the spot where Collins had been standing. Did he just imagine having a conversation with the Auror?

Gibson narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?” He seemed concerned, but Peter wasn’t sure if it was genuine, or he was expecting Peter to lose his mind like everyone else did other than George and Dumbledore.

Peter felt like he was losing his mind.

He glanced at the notebook, laid out open on the desk along the bookshelf. Gibson followed his eyes, and stepped closer, his attention shifting to the diary from Peter’s mental state.

“You found it,” Gibson announced, sounding more relieved than how Peter himself felt. If anything, Peter was more tense than ever, still reeling from his hallucination just a few minutes ago. He was trying to focus on the present, but his mind kept going back to Collins’ visit—was it real? If it was, then was this Collins the real Collins, or an impostor? And if it was the real Collins, why did he have to leave so suddenly? Why couldn’t he be seen in the Restricted Section with Peter?

“It’s—!” exclaimed Peter the moment he noticed Gibson reaching for the notebook. The Ravenclaw boy looked at him in surprise, and Peter had barely a few moments to come up with something. He didn’t know what he’d just stopped Gibson for—was he afraid that the notebook would be still cursed? Peter couldn’t risk it. “It’s got the information on the venom.”

He should have lied to Gibson. He should have told Gibson that the manuscript was a dead-end—Peter knew he should have, but he’d already given Gibson the two-way paper—he was part of the team now, and as much as Peter didn’t want him to get even more involved with such an increasingly more dangerous situation, who was he to stop Gibson from learning the truth?

Peter didn’t have the right to decide that for Gibson.

“The Auror was right,” Peter explained. “The venom erases bad memories when it’s diluted. Someone had summoned a snowstorm to the bridge, and used it as a dissolvent to—”

“Make us think something didn’t happen?” Gibson finished, staring ahead of himself. His quick thinking surprised Peter, but on a second thought, he’d nothing but expected a Ravenclaw student to catch on. “What didn’t happen on the bridge?”

“The Prefect carriage,” said Peter. He didn’t want Gibson touching the notebook, so he made it float back to its place with a wordless spell. For a few moments, the diary didn’t seem to want to obey Peter’s wand, but it slipped back into the small space between its two neighbours without trouble. “You don’t remember anything about it, right?”

“Nothing,” Gibson shook his head. “It was there all along. I think.”

“It wasn’t.” He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to tell Gibson, but there was no turning back.

Gibson’s eyes widened and something changed in his expression. There was not a sliver of doubt in his eyes. He believed Peter’s words more than his own memory—Peter saw it better not to mention that even he couldn’t believe his own memories.

 

George was an awful lookout. Apparently, he had Quidditch training right before he met up with Gibson in the Library, which he failed to mention to Peter, which resulted in George falling asleep on top a book – that he drooled all over – right when the librarian made her rounds in the Library. George, having waken up so suddenly by the librarian and reprimanded for ruining her precious books, accidentally spilled the beans on Peter’s not-so-allowed presence in the Restricted Section.

By the time Peter and Gibson made it out with the needed information they were looking for, the librarian was waiting for them along with Professor Winnant and the Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Hogarth, who, first, was staring down Winnant – the two had a not so friendly history concerning the position of Arithmancy teacher – and then when Peter and George emerged from the Restricted Section, already knowing that they were in trouble thanks to George’s quick message, Hogarth stared down Peter.

Gibson got a single day to clean the Owl Tower as punishment, since he had permission to be in the restricted area, and Peter would have gotten a week at the greenhouses to help Professor Beery from Winnant, but Peter didn’t want to be let off with just that—he didn’t want to be treated differently just because he happened to be on the train that happened to be attacked. Not to mention that Gibson had been there too.

Winnant looked unwilling to make Peter’s punishment more severe, but after a few moments of hesitation, he sighed. “Very well, Mr. Dawson—due to your insistence, I’ll take five points from Hufflepuff for entering the Restricted Section without permission.”

Hogarth seemed to want to say something else, but he just sent the two Hufflepuff members a nasty glare – Peter wasn’t exactly sure what the quarrel between the two professors were, all he had heard was that Hogarth wanted the position of Arithmancy Professor, but was supplanted by the brilliancy of Winnant – and steered Gibson away by his shoulders.

George got away with it with a week’s detention at the Library, every afternoon, because he damaged a book, and the librarian was very fond of her books.

Before leaving, Professor Winnant opened his mouth to say something, but then he just turned around and left without another word. He didn’t seem disappointed in Peter for breaking the rules – entering the Restricted Section without an entrance slip would usually entail more severe punishment – more than that, he looked concerned about either Peter himself, or an aspect that Peter had something to do with.

Something told Peter that it was linked to whatever he was forgetting. He’d just found an important clue concerning the train attacker that could have explained many things, but instead, Peter felt more confused than ever as more and more details came to light.

He was especially confused by Collins and Professor Winnant, and their clearly strange behaviour around Peter and the attack. He wasn’t sure if he could trust either of them, though more than the Arithmancy professor, a part of Peter really wanted to trust Collins for some reason. The Auror had saved him from the dementor and from the fall, after all.

The only other adult who Peter could talk to, Professor Dumbledore, he trusted the least, and Headmaster Dippet was simply out of the question. His parents were better left in the dark – their letter considering pulling Peter out of school until the attacker was found had been embarrassing enough – and Adam had been sent to Eastern Europe to investigate a possible British associate of Grindelwald—that Peter wasn’t supposed to know, but Adam was awful at keeping his mouth shut, and Peter had promised not to tell anyone about it. Not even George. He wasn’t going to betray his brother’s trust for a bit of attention.

He’s got enough attention from the entire school as it was.

No, Peter had no one he could really discuss the situation with. It was becoming more difficult than he imagined.

 

Despite his apparent lack of compassion for anything that was not a plant life-form more sentient than Screechsnaps or Mandrakes, Professor Beery was well aware of Peter’s newfound infamy among the other students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“Well, well,” greeted the head of Herbology department in the greenhouse the next afternoon, first of the five that Peter had to suffer through. At least the others in Hufflepuff didn’t care why exactly Peter had lost the House five points for they were distracted by classes, the general discussions and rumours regarding the train attack, and an approaching quidditch match. They were going against Ravenclaw that weekend, and Calla Archer, too, had returned from St. Mungo’s without anything amiss—

Except that she had no idea she had been at St. Mungo’s to begin with. When the others asked where she’d been gone, Calla just said that she was away in Australia with her family and had gotten special permission to stay until their vacation ended. Only Peter was aware that it was a lie—Calla had been attacked, and the reason why Collins had been sent to Hogwarts to investigate in the first place.

Peter wondered just who had altered Calla’s memory, and why—other than not wanting to cause chaos by letting the students – and their parents – know that Hogwarts’ defences had been compromised.

“I never thought I would see you in detention, Mr. Dawson, the exemplary student from Hufflepuff,” Professor Beery was saying nonchalantly. It was early afternoon, but Peter had already finished all his classes. He appreciated the brightness coming from outside, flooding the glass-covered greenhouses with the whiteness of the sun and the reflective snow, and he welcomed the humid warmth inside with open arms. “On the other hand, I’m glad you’re the one they sent to help me. At least you know what to do.”

Peter didn’t say a word as Professor Beery listed off the tasks he would usually do himself, then pointed him in the direction of the storage room – which Peter definitely knew where to find – and left the greenhouse for his afternoon tea-time in the staff room.

Peter didn’t mind the solitude. He liked being in the greenhouse—though he wasn’t sure if it was thanks to his natural affinity for plant-life, or the other way around, but herbology was one of his favourite classes, and one of which he excelled at without breaking a sweat. It must have been one of the reasons why he’d been sorted into Hufflepuff with its earthy principles and colours, and sometimes he wondered why it wasn’t Beery to head their House instead of Professor Winnant, whereas herbology professors were known to lead Hufflepuff for decades since the foundation of Hogwarts.

The sight of so much green and the smell of soil combined with a mixture of various fragrances of herbs and flowers soothed Peter in a way that only the Hufflepuff common room could. Being in the greenhouse all alone, without the noise of a herbology class, it was all that he didn’t know he needed to have some time to himself without his thoughts immediately turning dark. The green warmth melted any mention of snow, and the brightness drove away the swirling dark masses of dementors from his head.

His body moved on instincts as he breezed through his tasks given by Beery—he trimmed overgrown vines, weeded out pots of semi-sentient plants that brushed his hands with their leaves in gratitude, sprayed water on them, discarded rotten and dried leaves and branches, and even re-potted a screeching Mandrake that was growing out of its pot. He didn’t have to think how to do these tasks, they came to him more naturally than any principle or law in transfigurations, or any theory in DADA.

In sixth year, pressure on students to start considering their future after graduation was gradually becoming a part of their everyday life, being expected to know exactly which path they would like to choose by the time they start their last year at Hogwarts. Peter, too, had given it a thought—but he still wasn’t sure. There were many occupations he could choose from, especially in the Ministry of Magic following his entire family, but just as most of his peers, Peter was clueless. He could do something with his love for herbology, though he could not see himself in Professor Beery’s place in ten or twenty years. It was just a hobby, something that helped him relax—he didn’t want to turn it into a job. The same he thought of Arithmancy.

He had never liked the idea of being an Auror—too many hardships, too many N.E.W.T.s required, too dangerous an occupation. It was something that entirely fit the older Dawson boy, and stood just as far from the younger Dawson son.

But the attack that night on Hogwarts Express had changed everything.

This thing Peter was doing with George, pretending to be investigators, was one of the most exciting things he’d ever gotten to do in his life – it was on the top of the list, right after that summer two years ago in Germany when him and George had nearly let loose a Hungarian Horntail at a festival – and it distracted Peter from having to think about his future. It was a dangerous play, he knew, but Peter—he felt stupidly invincible after the train incident.

He just had to protect George from getting hurt. And Gibson too. Peter had gotten them into trouble, and could potentially endanger their safety. That, Peter couldn’t continue, but the only way he could get George to give up on it was to lie to him. Constantly, until Peter found the truth. Gibson would be easy to discourage – after their spectacular fail in the Restricted Section, Peter was expecting the Ravenclaw boy to hand him back his two-way parchment – but George was his best friend, and the boy was stubborn as a mule.

Not to mention, Peter had to talk with Tommy, George’s other best friend. Whether Peter wanted to or not, he had to admit that the only way George could be more involved in this situation was if the Gryffindor boy had been on the train with them that evening. It would be hard to get George to stop.

 

George did not take the news easily.

“So that’s it?” he hissed, trying to keep it low.

They were in the study hall, just two days after the events in the Library. Yesterday, they couldn’t meet up with each other because their classes on Thursday brought them to the farthest points on school grounds, and when they had run into each other in the corridor, they only had time to nod at each other before they hurried off to another class. George had written an apology for falling asleep on duty on the same evening, but after Peter had written it off with a quick _‘don’t worry about it’_ , he didn’t reply. Gibson’s side was quiet too. “You’re giving up? Is this why we risked getting caught?”

“I know!” Peter called out loudly, getting hissed and psst’d at furiously. He slinked back into his seat and pulled up his shoulders to make himself appear smaller. He garnered enough attention from everyone as it was, he didn’t want more on his plate. “I _know_ —but look what it had gotten us into.”

“I’ve been looking through books,” George confessed out of the blue, balancing two crooked towers of books in each hand. Despite having rarely visited the Library for the past six years, George seemed to be right at home just after two days of wasting his afternoons under the librarian’s watchful eyes. Somehow, the role fit George perfectly.

“George,” sighed Peter in defeat, “we really should stop this. I mean there’s been—” he cut himself off, realizing that George didn’t know about the other two attacks in Hogwarts. “—there’s no point. Let the Ministry solve it. It’s their job.”

“It’s been a week almost,” said George, plopping down from across Peter. There were towers of books waiting for him to take them back to their place. “I saw that Auror around just yesterday—the Ministry still hasn’t found anything.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Peter retorted, knowing full well that Collins was already on the attacker’s trail, perhaps only just a step behind. Who were they kidding? Peter and George were just clueless students who only pretended to know the real world. They had no idea what it really was outside the safe haven of Hogwarts’ walls.

“I bet I can find something in these books sooner than that Auror can catch the culprit,” George smirked with confidence.

Something snapped in Peter. He prized himself in being an endlessly patient person – maybe that’s why he could be George’s best friend, balancing the Gryffindor boy’s impatience – but since he’d woken up in the infirmary after the attack, Peter felt something swelling inside him, slowly getting bigger and bigger with each guarded look the others sent him, the way they acted around him, and Peter kept swallowing this black tar until he couldn’t take it anymore. This was the last straw.

“You weren’t even there!” Peter burst out as he jumped to his feet, and left the study hall without looking back. He had no destination in mind, his only goal was to get far from the staring eyes that bore holes into him.

Instead of leaving the Library altogether to seek a quiet corner in one of the out of the way towers, Peter found himself taking the stairs to one of the least used parts of the Library, hoping that it would be empty as it usually was.

It was there that he ran into Gibson.

“Oh,” came out of Peter’s mouth unconsciously as he recoiled upon noticing the Ravenclaw student. His anger vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by something that resembled guilt.

“Hey,” said Gibson quietly, leaning over a book. They stared at each other for quiet moments.

Peter mustered his courage and swallowed his pride. “Hey. I—uh, I’m sorry for getting you into trouble the other day.”

Gibson slipped his hand off the opened book, as if he’d placed it there to hide whatever he was reading. “It was my choice.”

Peter glanced at the book. He was standing too far from it to be able to read the upside-down letters without making it too obvious that he was staring at it. However, there was an unmistakeable shape drawn at the top of the page that gave him a pretty good idea what Gibson was reading about.

“That your choice too?” asked Peter, tipping his chin toward the book. Gibson cast his eyes down for a brief moment. Peter didn’t know what the book itself was about, but he could not miss the Hogwarts Express displayed on the page—it was fitting that the book was stashed in this part of the Library, where uncategorized tomes were collected, ones that were missing vital information to be able to categorized in with proper subjects and themes. For students, it was too much of a hassle to skim through all the books to find one bout of information they would be looking for—even though hidden gems of knowledge were sprinkled throughout this abandoned part.

Gibson nodded. “I’ve always wondered why and how the Hogwarts Express was impossible to apparate anywhere near to—how they kept up the anti-apparation jinx all the time,” he explained. “But never enough to actually go out of my way and spend time searching for the answer. Until you mentioned the Prefect carriage.”

Peter tipped his head to the side. It was a thought he could relate to. A question was trying to break free, but Peter hesitated.

Suddenly, he found himself before a difficult decision.

Gibson was looking at him expectantly. His eyebrows were raised as though he was willing Peter to go ahead.

Peter thought back to George, having to spend his afternoons carrying books, punished for something he shouldn’t have been part of in the first place. It was very likely that if he let George come along as Peter delved deeper into this mystery, The Attacker would find them sooner or later—the professors at Hogwarts had allowed the culprit to strike twice already, and Collins was there to only investigate, not to protect the students. Him being on the train that night had been a stroke of luck.

George should not be part of this anymore. Gibson, on the other hand, had already made his own choice, and it was clear that he would do this with or without Peter.

Peter grabbed the back of the chair nearest to him, and pulled it out to sit down.

“What did you find?”

There was a ghost of a smile playing on Gipson’s lips. He pushed the book towards Peter.

“Not much yet, but interesting nonetheless. It’s a documentation on the Hogwarts Express’ construction and operation until 1920. Only the locomotive was constructed by Muggles, and was retrofitted to run on magic later. The carriages however… well, there’s not much on the carriages. They were acquired in a way that did not need a large number of Muggles to be Charmed.”

Peter followed along with his eyes on the page what Gibson was just relaying to him. When the Ravenclaw boy stopped, Peter looked at him to sign that he was listening.

“Is there anything on the anti-apparation jinx?”

Gibson lifted his shoulders. “Just that it was implemented a few years after the Express. Coincidentally, that is when they added the Prefect carriage too.”

What the pages held was mostly statistical information, separated into years and gathered into charts neatly: number of miles travelled, number of students aboard and their names, number of carriages and the like, all dry information that anyone would just skim over unless they were looking for a certain change in the usual, or strange phenomenon.

Peter glanced at Gibson. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, I’m not a Legilimens,” Gibson shrugged. His choice of the word of _Legilimens_ struck something in Peter, a sense of déjà vu, but Gibson continued before Peter could think too much about it. “But I’m thinking that there is a connection between the anti-apparation jinx and the Prefect carriage.”

The feeling of déjà vu still did not let Peter go. An idea was trying to burst out of him, but something was keeping him from accessing it—something that he’d been forgetting.

 _The Prefect carriage._ What was so special about the Prefect carriage? What was so special about it—that Alex had wanted Peter to distract someone while Alex got something from there?

What had Alex said, what was in there? He’d been trying to teach Avery and Lestrange a lesson for picking on Tommy—yes. It was all coming back to Peter now, though only in broken fragments that put together still barely made any sense.

There was something in the Prefect carriage that Alex had wanted. But Dumbledore had said—what did he say? He had claimed that Alex didn’t remember it. That he— _had looked into that Slytherin boy’s head, and not even one tiny fragment did he possess of this vital information—_

“I’m thinking—” Peter began, slowly. He had to choose his words carefully. “—That you’re right.”

Gibson looked satisfied enough to miss that Peter was paying only half his attention to him.

“Should we tell George about this?”

Upon hearing George’s name, Peter snapped out of his attempt at trying to remember just _where_ he had heard Dumbledore mention Alex.

Peter shook his head immediately. “No. He’s not—I don’t want to get him into more trouble.”

“It was his choice to tag along, wasn’t it, though?” Gibson questioned.

“He wasn’t on the train,” Peter explained. “It was my choice to tell him, so it’s _my_ responsibility—we cannot tell him.”

Gibson nodded, agreeing. He looked like he wanted to continue, but instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe, and pulled something out. He placed it on the desk. “I’d been planning on giving this back.”

Peter glanced at the small piece of his two-way parchment. “If we are to do this, you need it.”

“Won’t George see the messages?” Gibson asked, once again, catching on quicker than Peter had expected him to. “He mentioned that he had one piece too.”

“Just address me before you write anything—nifty little thing this paper is,” Peter grinned.

Gibson mirrored him, and grinned back. “If I didn’t have this, I’d want one for myself.”

 

Peter was overwhelmed. George was mad at him and refused to speak with him. He still couldn’t sleep without a potion for dreamless sleep and Madam Pomfrey was starting to suspect and worry that Peter was still not well. His workload was becoming too much by the day. Gibson was somewhat too enthusiastic about the investigation for Peter’s liking. He had to avoid Dumbledore. Going to the greenhouse for his detention was becoming a burden by the fourth day. Collins was still gone, and his absence made Peter more nervous each day. Alex was as if he’d disappeared, and Tommy kept to himself all the time and snapped at everyone who tried to talk to him. And all through this, something kept nagging at the back of Peter’s mind that he was forgetting something—something that he should be remembering. Each day, this feeling turned more and more sour and dreadful, until he was nearly convinced that he was going to be attacked again if he didn’t remember it soon.

It was like the calm before a storm, with tensions rising as high as the highest tower of Hogwarts.

On Friday, which was Peter’s last day in detention, and just a day before he could go to Hogsmeade to search for Collins – he didn’t know why he wanted to look for the Auror, but he had a feeling that all would be solved if he just met up with Collins no matter what, if only for the peace of his own mind – Peter had two classes all day, one of which was Arithmancy.

He dreaded facing Professor Winnant.

As if a symbol of the strange alliance between Winnant and Dumbledore, the Arithmancy classroom – Classroom 7A – was located right next door of 3C on the Serpentine Corridor where Dumbledore held his Transfiguration classes. Peter had been avoiding that part of the third floor all week, and he hurried down the corridor when he was headed for Arithmancy class so as not to risk being seen by Dumbledore. Hopefully Winnant wouldn’t bother Peter after class unlike the other professor—Peter didn’t know if he could endure yet another interrogation.

Sometimes, Professor Winnant could be still a little awkward due to his inexperience as a teacher at Hogwarts – compared to the other members of the staff – despite being there for the second year by now, but he was a capable professor, as punctual as a clock and ready to help any student who sought his advice not just in the subject of Arithmancy, but in other areas as well for the Hufflepuffs.

Due to this knowledge, Peter knew that something was wrong when Professor Winnant arrived ten minutes late, looking as if he had forgotten he had a class to teach until five minutes ago.

“Excuse my tardiness,” the tall professor was saying as he hurried down the aisle between rows of desks, slightly out of breath. His hair and robe looked damp, and when he swept past Peter – sitting at the very edge of the table, with two seats empty between him and the student next to him – Peter swore he could feel the whisper of coldness and the smell of smoke trailing after the teacher as if Winnant had been outside somewhere in Hogsmeade just before class. It would explain a few things – mainly his tardiness – for example, he might have been meeting Collins in regards to the attack, but Peter couldn’t be for sure.

“Before we start the class, I’ve two news to share with you,” said Professor Winnant, having collected himself while Peter was off to Hogsmeade in his head. Peter purposefully avoided looking at the professor, instead opting to stare at his Arithmancy book. Numbers were another part of the mystery, like the Prefect carriage, but that, Peter had to figure out on his own. No one else could learn of the attacks in Hogwarts. “First, a reminder that today is the last day to sign up for any Extracurricular classes for this term, and should any of you be short on credits, there are still open spots for my Advanced Arithmancy classes on Tuesdays on the first floor of the Turris Magnus. If you would like to sign up, you can tell me after this class personally.”

There was some shushed noise from the back of the classroom, a few Slytherins and Gryffindors scoffing – ‘ _who in their right mind would sign up for Advanced Arithmancy after this?’_ was usually the right reaction to such announcement – and Peter would have disregarded the _offer_ had it not been for a strange intuition that numbers were most important now. He had been considering not continuing Advanced Arithmancy for this term after last year, but things were different now.

The numbers, Calla Archer’s attack, and Professor Winnant were connected to the mysterious assailant in Hogwarts—and if the person was the same as the one who commanded the dementors to ambush the train, it was connected to Peter too.

“And second,” Winnant started, hushing the entire classroom with only his voice, despite talking in gentle tones usually, “as some of you may have noticed this week, we’ve had a Ministry worker here in Hogwarts…”

Peter jerked his head up so fast at the mention of the Ministry worker that his neck popped quietly. Professor Winnant must have been looking at Peter, because when he looked up, the teacher looked away, glancing around the class, seemingly flustered somewhat. Other students began murmuring once again. Peter was holding his breath.

What was Winnant going to tell them about Collins? True, he’d heard others talking about the Auror, though unlike Peter, they hadn’t known Collins’ occupation nor the reason for his presence in Hogwarts.

“Mr. Collins will be holding the Apparation class this year. It will be a twelve-week long course starting from next week, and you can sign up for it on the notice board in the Common Room from tomorrow morning until Sunday evening.” He let the students get a bit loud for a couple seconds before he continued. “If you’re seventeen of age, you will be able to take the course for twelve galleons which you can also pay through the Ministry after the course.”

Some people, those who had not yet celebrated their seventeenth birthday – quite a lot of Peter’s classmates, in fact – groaned and complained, but Professor Winnant lifted a hand in the air when it became a bit too rowdy.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” the young professor continued. “Time to start the class—yes, I know,” said Professor Winnant with a smile, spreading his arms when the students let out pretended groans and sounds of displeasure.

As was he with herbology, Peter was also exceptionally good at arithmancy. Prior to Professor Winnant’s arrival in his fourth year, Peter was one of the most favourite students of the previous arithmancy professor, who had since then retired from the occupation of teaching. Being good with plants and numbers wasn’t really common a feature, and Peter had made a name for himself among students of all Houses as someone whom anyone could ask questions they were afraid or too proud to ask from the professors.

Peter wished he could go back to those times.

At least the only thing that didn’t change was that Peter could still not pay attention in Arithmancy class and still know what was going on. He did not have any intention of changing that now either, and so the next time Peter came back around, the class was already over, indicated by everyone else around Peter packing their books and quills, the large blackboard in the corner next to Winnant’s desk written full of numbers and an equation predicting the chances of an observable full moon that month. Just as the act of taking care of plants, the precision of numbers soothed Peter, though in a different way. Numbers never lied, and their predictions – if handled properly – were a never-changing island on the continuously shifting sea of possibilities in life.

“Professor,” said Peter, getting up from his desk. He didn’t care that the classroom was not yet empty, no doubt garnering attention by addressing the professor—with anyone else, it would seem natural, for a student to want to talk with their teacher after class, but not with Peter, not anymore.

“Yes, Mr. Dawson?” asked Professor Winnant, his eyebrows slightly drawn together. He made no move to hide a cautious glance behind Peter. “How can I help you?

“I’d like to sign up for Advanced Arithmancy,” replied Peter, earning a pleased nod from Professor Winnant after a few calculated moments.

“I was starting to think that you’ve changed your mind, but I’m glad you did not.”

Peter nodded and turned his head to the side to check if there was anyone else still in the classroom, how long he would have to pretend before he can confront Winnant without any witnesses.

Seconds passed before the door was closed, taking with it the last student and the noises of a break echoing down the Serpentine Corridor. The moment Peter was alone with the other man, he placed his palms on the edge of the large desk.

“Professor—” “—Peter—”

Peter stared at Professor Winnant, who’d just talked at the same time as he. Without a beat, Peter continued, taking advantage of the momentary silence from his teacher.

“Can I ask a question?”

Professor Winnant nodded. He looked guilty. He didn’t even try to hide it. Why was he feeling guilty?

“Who was the second victim?”

Winnant sighed, lifting a hand to his face to massage his nose bridge. “Peter… this is… you shouldn’t—”

“And what happened on Sunday night, down in the Kitchen corridor?” Peter watched with a blank face as Winnant slowly stood up, bracing his hands on the desk’s other side. He looked torn between his apparent guilt, doing what was responsible and expected of him as an adult and a professor – not telling Peter what he wanted to know – and telling Peter what he wanted to know. “Professor… I—I still can’t sleep without the potion, and… and I keep having this weird feeling that I’m forgetting something, and it’s just—”

“I know,” said Winnant with a nod, and rounded the desk to be within arm’s reach from Peter. He put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you want the truth, and I know I shouldn’t tell you.”

Peter’s heart sank. What else could he say to persuade Winnant? He had really thought that Winnant would be the most likely to answer his questions—blindly, Peter had placed his trust in him, and now he had to face the consequences of his mistake.

“But I see that it’s tearing you apart,” Winnant continued after a long moment of silence filled with tension. Peter swallowed in expectation, heart back to hammering in his ribcage. “I know what you were doing in the Restricted Section, and I know that you won’t stop until you find the truth yourself—but you will risk not only your safety, but your friends’ as well. You’ve already gotten them into trouble for your own selfish reasons.”

Peter bit into his lip and cast his eyes to the floor in shame. “I’m really sorry, Professor. But… it was their choice! I’ve given them a chance to decline.”

“No, it was your responsibility, because the moment you talked to them about it, you made the choice for them,” said Winnant, and took a step back. Peter had never been short, but he had to tip his head a wee to the back to look at the tall professor. “You cannot do that anymore.”

“I—know,” Peter mumbled. This time, he kept quiet.

“And for that reason, I ask you to stop with this. We will handle it with the Ministry.”

“I met Mr. Collins in the Restricted Section,” Peter confessed right away, and he had to admit that he felt smug at making Professor Winnant recoil a little at this new information. He felt disrespectful for continuing, but he didn’t want Winnant to interrupt him. “He told me that I was in danger. Am I in danger, professor?”

Winnant closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. Peter felt nervous. If Winnant agreed with Collins, then it meant that Peter was indeed in danger _within_ Hogwarts.

He might even get attacked—

“Yes,” whispered Professor Winnant. “The second victim was your friend, from Slytherin—Alex, I think his name was.”

“Alex?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all who read the fic, commented and left kudos so far! im horrible at reacting to comments, but just know that i appreciate all of them dearly!
> 
> did i say tommy and farrier should be appearing soon? haha jk. these chapters just keep writing themselves and i dont even know if we've even reached halfway of the story bc it just keeps expanding itself. i'm just trying to, you know, build up the whole thing before i can have a seventeen-year-old kid chasing criminals and whatnot.


	6. Case of the Revealed Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tommy finally appears properly! collins returns, and peter finds out a lot of things, including something he still doesn't fully realise.

 

For the last time, Peter was in one of the greenhouses to be done with his detention for good. He was sitting on a small chair, staring out the window at the serene white hills nearby when Professor Beery swept inside, his robe floating in the rush of air from swinging the door open with such vigour. _Friday sure was trying to stay relevant to me until the last moment_ , Peter thought with a tired sigh inwards. It had been just two hours since his Arithmancy class ended, and Peter had not yet achieved much in the greenhouse since he arrived—he was still trying to grasp what Professor Winnant had said about Alex.

It disproved his initial theory that the attacker might have had targeted Winnant specifically. With Alex, a Slytherin student being the second victim, it was not the case anymore. But then what role did the numbers play in the attacks? Did they even have a role in the attacks, or was it just Peter’s obsession? It was all so puzzling.

That, Professor Beery did not care about at all.

“Lad, I got you some help,” announced the man briefly. “I expect the two of you to finish sooner. I don’t want to see you here by three o’clock,” he suggested and left just as suddenly as he had arrived. He left a hunched shape in his wake, and Peter had to lean all the way to the side with his body to see the person still standing in the door, unmoving, as if unwilling to enter the greenhouse.

“Hey,” said Peter gently, rising to his feet to greet a fellow victim of Beery’s detention. He was expecting mostly another Hufflepuff student – Professor Winnant tended to send them to the greenhouses for punishment, much to Professor Beery’s dismay, unless it was a student who excelled at his subject – but the gold and red sweater was not what surprised him most.

“Quit staring,” Tommy growled, and Peter could barely recognize him with his face contorted in anger so much—Peter had never seen Tommy look so angry, never knew the other boy _could_ look so angry. He’d always known Tommy to be one of the quietest Gryffindors, never one to lose his cool. He’d only ever gotten a small taste of this different Tommy, but based on George’s reports, Peter would have never thought the situation to be this bad.

“…Sorry,” Peter mumbled on instinct, quickly averting his gaze elsewhere lest he cause Tommy to suddenly combust into a ball of angry growls. Peter inadvertently scoffed at the thought, catching himself too late.

“What?” Tommy hissed, stomping into the greenhouse proper.

Peter steeled himself as Tommy stopped right in front of him. “Nothing,” he said. Never one for confrontation, he looked away. He examined the shelves and racks holding various plants, their proliferation reminding Peter that he still hadn’t done anything. Beery was not going to let him out of the greenhouses until the tasks were done, that Peter was sure about.

For a couple brief moments, the glasshouse was filled only with the sounds of rustling leaves and small insects that came in pair with a few plants that were in symbiotic relationship with said little critters. Outside, the wintry world was calm as it could get.

“I don’t know about you, but I have other places to be,” said Peter then, “so… let’s just get this over with, eh?” He supposed, Tommy would want to be treated normally just like Peter himself wanted to be treated by the others, with less success than more this past week. Maybe if Tommy was not reminded of whatever had been making him so, so angry all week, they would be okay for time being. Maybe Peter could help Tommy calm down and return to being his old self. He hadn’t talked with George since the morning, but he knew that between Tommy distancing himself and George taking his anger out on Peter for not wanting to continue looking for the truth, the effects of the train attack was taking its toll on the Gryffindor student even though he hadn’t been there. It was definitely affecting Peter negatively, and he could imagine himself in George’s shoes—to have his two best friends act so out of their normal selves, to wanting to help them through their hard times but not knowing how, because he hadn’t gone through the same.

Peter knew that Tommy needed to come back around if he wanted George to forgive him.

“Do whatever you want,” replied Tommy, and sat down in the nearest chair. He crossed his arms and leaned back adamantly with a seemingly eternal scowl on his face.

Peter leaned against a table that was in the middle, and balled his fists. Equipment were scattered all over the desk from a class with first years – they were horrible at putting things back to their designated places, nor did Beery trust the eleven-year-olds to do it properly – waiting for Peter to clean them up. He didn’t mind. Too many thoughts were swarming inside his head, and after Winnant’s revelation at Arithmancy class, Peter had desperately needed something to distract himself with. Cleaning the greenhouse was what he had thought he needed, but when he actually got there, Peter still couldn’t focus. Now alone with Tommy, whom he hadn’t talked to since they got on the Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross Station nearly a week ago, it was going to be anything but possible not to think of the attacks and the mystery.

Too much had happened in such short time. It was just too much for Peter. He felt that despite all that he’d done to ignore it best as he could, he was nearing his limit. How long until he followed after Tommy and started snapping at everyone who just as much as tried to talk to him?

He felt the same resentment as he did when he last talked with George in the Library. It was happening again, and a part of Peter didn’t understand why he just felt so angry so often. It wasn’t like him at all. He didn’t understand—he had been able to distract himself from the feeling by talking with Gibson about the mystery—the exact same thing that was, in its core, making Peter so irritated with everyone. He needed to focus on one singular thing.

He couldn’t.

Peter barely recognized himself when he realised that he had pushed Tommy against the wall with the tip of his wand pressed deep into Tommy’s neck. A horrible spell danced on the tip of Peter’s tongue that he couldn’t believe he was considering casting.

“Snap out of it!” cried Peter, threatening as he twisted his wand. Tommy let out a choking sound, arms at his sides not knowing what to do. In the corner of his eye, Peter noticed Tommy’s wand out in the open. “What’s gotten into you?”

Tommy bared his teeth, breathing hard and loud. “See?” he laughed bitterly. “It’s getting to you too, isn’t it? When you’re done pretending to be some bloody hero, I suggest you take a look around yourself.”

Peter let Tommy place his hands on his chest and push him away. Neither of them lifted their wands, nor did they put them away. The tension between them, however unnatural and unpleasant it was, flickered between them, like air on a very hot day.

“You’re not the only one. Everybody, _everybody_ who was on the train is suffering. But you’re too blinded by this—new fame of yours to notice—”

“What are you talking about?” Peter whispered, blinking fast in confusion. He backed away, until his back collided with a table behind him. With each blink, Tommy got closer and closer, until it was Peter’s turn to be cornered.

“If you’re such a big _hero_ ,” Tommy spat, “then where were you when they attacked Alex, huh?”

Peter’s throat closed for a moment with a large lump that kept him from swallowing and breathing.

It was not fair for Tommy to accuse him of this—Peter had never thought of himself as a hero. He was not a saviour. His so-called _fame_ was an ill-gotten something that Peter did not deserve at all. His role in the train accident had been by sheer luck—had he been in a different coupé, Collins might have had not saved him from the dementor and asked Peter to help him, appearing to anyone after them as though Collins had purposely chosen Peter to be his little _assistant_. It was not fair Tommy to call out on Peter like this—Tommy hadn’t been there. He didn’t know the entire story.

But Tommy was angry and unable to be reasoned with. So was Peter.  

“You know about the attacks?” Peter blurted out then, before he could have said anything else that he would have regretted immediately. As a response, Tommy’s eyes widened in some sort of recognition, but it was there only for a quick second before his arm shot out and fisted Peter’s collar.

“He was coming to meet me,” said Tommy, not bothering to hide the fact that he was admitting something to Peter that he hadn’t even told George. Tommy was not supposed to know of his preferences, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to care. “But he was late. He’s never been late for—our meetings. I decided to look for him and then I found him in the courtyard. Just—lying there—”

“Tommy…” said Peter quietly. His heart was racing, unable to predict what Tommy was going to do the next moment. The other boy’s rosy face was twisted with red rage but—tears were brimming in his eyes as he continued.

“The snow—there was blood all around him, and I—I thought he was _dead,_ Peter, I thought he was dead.”

For a moment, Peter’s brain went blank when he felt Tommy’s arms around his torso, but he snapped out of it when Tommy dropped his head on Peter’s shoulder and started weeping. His arms tightened around Peter until he lifted his arms and embraced Tommy as the other boy heaved.

Peter stared at the darkening layer of snow on the glass roof of the greenhouse. The sun was going down, taking with it the natural, white light so quickly as though it was hurrying below the horizon to hide. When Beery had arrived with Tommy in tow, the entire place was bright as if it had been just noon, but now, the shadows overwhelmed everything, and the snow was now casting blue twilight on them from above.

He couldn’t get the image Tommy had just painted to him out of his head. Peter found himself standing in the courtyard outside the Clock Tower, the ancient fountain in the centre ice cold as the white snow sparkled like powdered crystals in the silver moonlight. His boots sinking into the snow, he trudged along, until he noticed a shoe peeking out from behind the corner of the dais upon which the fountain stood, and as Peter carefully stepped closer, the snow began to turn dark red until there Alex was, staring at the sky without blinking, his face pale and lips blue.

Tommy wept quietly, shoulders trembling as he held onto Peter for dear life. No doubt he’d been haunted by this image for an entire week, and the uncertainty of Alex’s future—he had no way of knowing whether Alex would make it through the first night even.

Plagued for an entire week—no wonder he’d been so irritable. Not being able to share it with anyone, he carried this burden all alone.

“I was talking with the Auror when Professor Winnant came to tell him about the attack,” confessed Peter while he continued to stroke Tommy’s back in hopes of calming the boy. Upon hearing Peter, the other boy quietened his sobs, but didn’t offer any other reaction. “I didn’t know who the victim was. I believed it was someone from Hufflepuff again…”

“…Again?” asked Tommy quietly, talking into Peter’s shoulder.

“Alex was the second victim—nobody’s supposed to know, but,” Peter added, “someone from Hufflepuff had been attacked during the holiday. The Ministry sent an Auror here to investigate it.”

Tommy exhaled loudly, sounding like he was mustering his courage to let go of Peter and face him after his outburst. Peter didn’t think there was any shame in admitting that one was vulnerable due to someone they held dear. Though he hadn’t talked much with Alex before – if not for George and Peter’s friendship, Peter would never have as much as looked Alex’s way – but he’d grown closer to Tommy in the past year. He wouldn’t judge Tommy for crying for Alex.

Peter would cry if he saw George lying in a pool of his blood as well.

The Gryffindor boy stepped away and wiped his face in the sleeve of his black robe. For long moments, he avoided direct eye contact with Peter, only looking up when Peter took matters into his hand, and grasped Tommy’s shoulder with an encouraging squeeze.

“It’s going to be alright,” said Peter with a small nod. Tommy slightly bit his lower lip, and nodded as well after a brief moment of hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy sighed, his eyes cast to the floor. He shook his head, as if a reaction to a thought that only he could know of. It didn’t matter what that thought was, Peter had a general idea.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” said Peter, unable to keep a slight frown from appearing on his face. When Tommy looked up at him, he hoped that he would not misunderstand his expression for a reaction to Tommy’s behaviour. Peter was frowning at himself. “George is… we’re his best mates, and we’ve both pushed him the wrong way.”

“I know,” Tommy agreed, combing through his black hair with his fingers in a bout of exasperation. Just as with Peter, he knew this momentary display of anger was directed more at himself, than at Peter or George. “Merlin, I’ve been an awful friend this week, haven’t I?”

“We both were,” shrugged Peter, leaning back enough to support most of his weight on the table behind him. They were not going to finish by four o’clock if they didn’t start soon, but that moment, Peter could not care less about his obligations. He hadn’t thought that making up with Tommy, and seeing the old Tommy was going to be this relieving—almost more than anything else. “Don’t worry about George. He’ll understand. He’s just—he’s been agonizing over how to talk to you.”

Tommy hissed as if he’d just been roughly pinched somewhere sensitive, and squeezed his eyes shut. Still, his face was devoid of the previous anger, and now he looked like the old Tommy. “Ouch. But I think I deserve this. I just—I haven’t been myself since the train… and Alex…”

“I don’t think any of us have been the same since Saturday,” said Peter, earning an agreeing nod from Tommy. He exhaled loudly again, sounding as though he was letting out something that had kept him from relaxing all week, and he leaned against the table with a shuddering sigh. Peter watched him closely, feeling relieved himself. He felt like a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Things would be okay with George from now, he hoped.

“We should—” started Tommy, gesturing at the herbology equipment strewn all over the desks. Peter rubbed a palm against his cheek, suddenly feeling extremely tired. “Yeah.”

They worked quick and quiet with their wands, sending pruners and gloves flying back to the shelves and drawers, sweeping discarded leaves on the floor to the compost piles, and while Peter made his rounds checking whether all plants were properly taken care of, Tommy balanced two watering pots on both sides with one wand, showering rows of plants with a spray of water. The silence between them was comfortable this time, no need for more words; they’d talked enough for time being, and Peter felt that neither was there any reason to force it nor was it going to do Tommy any good if he forced the other boy to talk more.

Something though—something didn’t leave Peter alone. It nagged and nagged at him constantly until he nearly felt bursting by the time they finished cleaning the third greenhouse. The next one, Beery was holding a class in, so Tommy and Peter decided it was best for them to leave detention—they were half past four, and Beery had said what he had said, after all.

The long corridor that led to the greenhouses was empty—no one treaded those hallways unless they were headed for herbology, and seeing as how the class was still going on, it was no wonder Peter and Tommy found themselves walking down the corridor alone.

The silence and the solitude presented Peter with a great opportunity that he grabbed immediately.

Tommy must have been thinking the same—he was the quicker to open his mouth.

“Why did you think it was another Hufflepuff? The second victim?”

Peter came to a sudden halt, his expression and body betraying him in a blink of an eye. He caught himself just in time before Tommy could start wondering about his reaction, and Peter schooled his face before he replied. There was no reason to lie or omit the truth—Tommy had been there for the attack, and Peter had already told him the most important parts anyway.

“Because the first one was from my House too and…” said Peter, his voice fading away. A part of him considered not telling Tommy, but he quickly overruled it. “I thought that Professor Winnant—that the attacker was indirectly targeting him because…”

Tommy looked confused, but interested nonetheless. He was also impatient—Peter must have spaced out for some time, because the next time Tommy spoke up, he sounded urgent.

“Because…?”

“He was…” started Peter absentmindedly, looking out the window. They were near one of the courtyards; the large tree in the corner was just a skeleton of dark branches reaching over the free space menacingly, like the fleshless hands of a dementor. The snow, trudged all across in criss-crossing footsteps from the braver – and lazy – students, was painted orange by candlelight from the nearby windows. There was no blood staining the snow. Just—orange light. “…because numbers.”

“Numbers?” echoed Tommy, completely lost until something clicked for him. “Numbers…”

“There were numbers near Alex, weren’t there? In the snow?” asked Peter suddenly, grabbing Tommy’s shoulders. _Numbers_. They were important.

But why? Why were they so important that Peter had decided to unknowingly sign up for Advanced Arithmancy so just he could understand them better? What was so special about numbers?

“I’m—I’m not sure,” Tommy stuttered, wrinkling his forehead as he tried to think back. He seemed reluctant to visit those memories again, but Peter must have looked too desperate to know what he had seen. “Might have been. I thought they were just shoeprints.”

“Numbers,” Peter repeated. “There were—were numbers and—”

“Peter?”

Peter barely heard his name being called. His ears were ringing, and he felt dizzy. Numbers floated in and out of his head, Calla Archer—not remembering; Professor Winnant, the initial target; Alex—attacked, numbers, numbers—

 _Numbers_ carved on the wall. Scratching noise. Overwhelming smell of spices—the Kitchens. _Rolsy_.

“Peter!”

 

It had been a week since Peter had nightmare-less sleep without using Madam Pomfrey’s potion. He had to keep going back to the infirmary to ask for more, because the nurse would only ever give him a small vial enough for two nights only. The last time Peter had gone to visit Madam Pomfrey’s office for some more Potion for Dreamless Sleep, the matron was reluctant to comply, but Peter needed only bat his eyelashes and say that he would not ask for more from then on, it would be the last time.

Now, Madam Pomfrey looked absolutely troubled, deep wrinkles on her aged face near abyssal when Peter woke up. She was standing next to his bed, with a cup in hand—she had a mysterious ability to predict when her patients would soon wake, and for that, Peter was eternally grateful now, because the warm tea he was drinking was better than any remedy he could have been given that moment.

However—that did not explain the mysterious, loud snoring that was coming from somewhere very close. No kid snored like this.

When Peter opened his mouth to thank Madam Pomfrey, she just smiled, and before she left, she pointed at something on the other side of Peter’s bed—he’d been too focused on the nurse and the heavenly-looking cup in her hand to notice anything else.

To say that Peter was surprised to see Collins sleeping in a chair by his bed was an understatement. He was dumbfounded at the presence of the Auror, not to mention that he was _sleeping_ there. Had he come during the night and—why would he stay? Peter was just a student to him, one of the hundred girls and boys in Hogwarts. There was no reason for such an important person as the Auror tasked with solving one of the biggest mysteries in Hogwarts to take interest in such an insignificant person as Peter Dawson, the unlucky soul who’d gotten tangled up in the middle of all.

There was no logical explanation to Collins’ presence in the infirmary, and more than anything, it confused Peter. Another mystery to add to the list of mysteries. Peter should soon start a list of them to keep track of all, because as the term progressed, more and more enigmas seemed to make themselves known with no explanation in sight.

“Collins?” Nothing. “Wake up. Mr. Collins?” Still nothing. Not a reaction. Collins continued to snore. Peter inhaled, thinking of how to wake the Auror properly. A part of him, the one that desperately wished for things to go back to normal, wanted to play a trick, do some mischief, just to feel like a kid again, but Peter felt that it would be inappropriate in these times. He couldn’t think of mischiefs anymore. When had he become so serious?

When Peter wanted to look around, he noticed that there was a curtain enclosing the small space around his bed, drawn, possibly by Madam Pomfrey to give him – them – some privacy. The Hospital Wing had been one of Peter’s least visited parts of Hogwarts for the six years he’d been studying there, but now it seemed that trouble kept finding him. Just within a week, he had to have been taken to the infirmary twice, and Peter had a feeling that this trend would just continue until St. Mungo’s would exchange the infirmary in Hogwarts, and there, Peter might not wake up with a simple headache anymore. Not unless the mysteries of the attacks, both the individual ones and the train incident, were solved, the culprits caught and brought to justice, and locked in Azkaban preferably for the rest of their lives.

Somehow, the possible consequences still did not register for Peter—how many times had he come too close to seriously being injured in the past week? Not once. Alex had been nearly killed. The attacker was not going easy on them just because they were children—their lives were at stake.

And Peter—he had unknowingly pushed himself into the centre of all. Collins had even warned him: he was in danger. He should have been more careful.

Why did Peter keep looking for the answer? Why couldn’t he just stop? He should have stopped while he had the chance, but now he was past the point of return. He _had_ to do this, no matter what.

“Collins,” said Peter, starting to become frustrated. He thought it still would be awkward to touch the Auror to shake him awake, but maybe—he could do something about it that would also please the young kid deep inside his heart wishing for a little prank.

Peter grabbed his wand from the bedside table, and flicked his wrist lightly. With a quiet whoosh, the innocent spell found the legs of the chair on which Collins was sleeping, and the front two legs suddenly lifted into the air before slamming back down from Collins’ weight.

The result was predictable, and immediate. Collins let out a loud, surprised snort and almost tumbled forward onto the ground from the sudden movement of the chair, losing his balance. He shook his head and rubbed his face before he looked at Peter blearily.

Peter beamed at Collins, deep down hoping that he hadn’t just crossed a line. “There’s a troll in the dungeon.”

Any response Collins seemed to have disappeared from his face, along with all expressions. “Har har. You seem to be in an awfully good mood considering what happened.”

The smile that Peter had been trying to battle into submission now froze onto his face at the mention of something not very good happening. Upon seeing his reaction, Collins let out a laugh, but just as Peter’s carefree seconds, it disappeared within a blink of an eye.

The air between them became heavy with tension.

“What happened?” asked Peter quickly, folding his arms defensively. His wand rested on his lap.

“You overworked yourself,” said Collins, this time with a more serious expression on his face. He tried to change the topic. “What are you trying to achieve by this? Because let me tell you, you won’t break my record for the most visits to the infirmary within seven years. You’re just going to get yourself killed, lad.”

“Stop with the _‘lad’_ ,” Peter sneered, using Collins’ own quote against the Auror. “It makes me feel young.”

“Aye, because you _are_ young,” Collins pressed, and his tone forced all of Peter to realize that they were past joking. The child in his chest shrunk back to the corner where it had come from as Peter’s heart plummeted upon the realization finally settling in. This was serious. “You’re putting yourself in danger. Let us grown-ups handle it.”

Peter opened his mouth to retaliate, but he couldn’t find the appropriate words. He knew Collins was right—Professor Winnant had been right, too. And Peter knew—he knew that he was treading on thin ice, beneath him something that Peter still refused to admit, and with each step, each decision the icy crust cracked and cracked, because down there lay the truth as well, and Peter _wanted_ the truth. He was too far from the shore to turn back now—he had to continue on and make do with what – and whose help – he had.

He just needed Collins to understand.

“You could’ve told me to stop when we were in the Library, but you didn’t,” said Peter simply, schooling his features. His fingers around his wand twitched, palms clammy in sickening expectation. He didn’t want to have this verbal fight with the Auror, but he had no choice.

“I thought you would be smart enough and give up after you’d been attacked twice. But seems that I’ve overestimated your common sense and—”

“—Twice?” Peter cut into Collins’ monologue. He furrowed his brows at Collins in confusion. “What do you mean _twice_?”

Collins stared back. Time seemed to slow down as neither of them said anything. For the first time since meeting him, Peter could finally look at Collins, really look at him and examine his face from so close.

His eyes were impossibly blue in the light of the rising sun streaming through the large window behind Peter’s bed. Dust motes floated between them, like tiny glowing fairies with pearlescent wings fluttering as thought they’d been charmed by a slowing spell. Collins’ blond hair seemed to sparkle goldenly, and for a moment, Peter found himself to be lost. Until Collins opened his mouth.

“Merlin’s beard, Dumbledore did erase your memory,” gasped Collins slightly. He was a hair’s breadth from looking outright shocked.

Peter felt numb and dumbfounded. His memory—had been erased?

“Of what? What happened to me?” On a sudden whim, Peter reached forward and grasped Collins’ arm. “Collins. Tell me. Had I been attacked here?”

“I’m not sure if I should—if Dumbledore saw it best that you don’t remember it, then— _shit_.”

Peter swallowed and bit into his lip, deep in thought. He sat back, releasing Collins – his face felt remarkably hotter, was he blushing? – and cast his eyes on the white bedsheet. He was _not_ avoiding Collins’ eyes—despite feeling rather embarrassed, and the thought of looking Collins in the eye right now seemed to be most terrifying.

“You can’t—” Peter spoke up after what felt like an eternally stretched silence, “—exclude me anymore. You can’t protect me by making me forget…”

Collins let out a loud sigh. “I know. I think your Head, Winnant, was against Dumbledore’s decision. He came to me earlier on Sunday to tell me about it, but—Dippet’s chosen Dumbledore to lead the investigation team in Hogwarts.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Peter snapped, not intending his question to sound so frustrated. He didn’t want to take it out on Collins because the Auror was just doing his job, but—George was right. It had been a week since the train attack, and neither Collins nor the school had managed to catch the culprit. Either Peter had overestimated the adults’ competence in solving the crimes, or the attacker – or attacker _s_ – was more powerful and clever than previously thought. Peter didn’t know which possibility was the more unsettling. Hogwarts housed some of the most brilliant wizards in all of Britain, and they still allowed a stranger to go around the school terrorizing— _attacking_ and wounding students.

If Hogwarts was not safe anymore, where else on the British Isles were they safe?

“Watch your tone, _lad_ ,” said Collins, his anger visible in the slight creases between his eyebrows only. He seemed to be torn between staying patient with a kid like Peter, and telling him off for his disrespectful taunt. His deepened voice and threat did not faze Peter.

Peter straightened his back, trying to appear as an even match to the Auror. He didn’t want to—he couldn’t afford to be treated as a kid anymore.

They were locked in a staring contest for too long, and Peter wasn’t sure who’d lost by blinking first, but he had no words to say that moment. Inside, he was shaking with the fear of having finally crossed the line with Collins, and he’d just thrown away his only chance to get closer to the truth.

“I was worried for you,” Collins then added, quietly. His expression flattened out as if his anger had just bled out of him in a blink of an eye. Upon Collins’ genuine response, Peter felt all his hostility leave him. “I—was hoping that you’d be safe—that your teachers would keep you safe, but when I heard what happened to you, I knew that you were more important than anyone would’ve thought.”

Peter quietly tasted the words. The unpleasant sensation from his body that urged him to leave had vanished, and all that remained was good old-fashioned confusion.

“I’m… important?”

Collins shifted in his seat. The chair creaked softly as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. This way, Peter, in his sitting position, had to lower his eyes to look at Collins, while the Auror stared at the curtain with such intensity that for a moment Peter thought the material would combust from a spontaneous, non-verbal spell from Collins’ head like blue sparks of the _Berillious_ charm. But those sparks could never be as blue as Collins’ eyes—those eyes that now turned towards Peter, causing him to jerk his head away in an almost girlish gesture of embarrassment. He wagered he looked like he’d accidentally knocked back a full bottle of love potion, and Peter himself couldn’t understand his own reaction. Collins just looked so darn handsome.

“You are,” the Auror said, “I believe, one of the most important pieces of this massive puzzle.”

Peter drew his eyebrows together in embarrassment, not knowing how else to react. Collins kept looking at him with something akin to awe and curiosity—like Peter was some kind of unknown artefact of which Collins wished to take apart and learn its secrets. This, Peter figured, might have been the first time he saw the Auror at work.

He was just work for Collins—yet his words did not leave Peter. _I was worried for you_.

“You know what?” spoke Collins suddenly, sitting up so fast that he startled Peter. He noticed it. “I bet you want to get out of here.”

“I—”

“Right,” Collins cut in, but Peter did not have the time to even start feeling pissed off at being interrupted. “What do you say, should I take you to Hogsmeade?”

“Is that such a good idea?” asked Peter carefully. “I mean—considering the current situation?”

“You won’t make any trouble, will you?”

“I seem to attract trouble lately.”

“Well then,” said Collins with a grin, and got up with a pat to the edge of Peter’s bed, fingertips just an inch from his own hand. “We’ll deal with it together if trouble rears its head, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay(?). i purposely did not set any schedules because i know i can't keep to them. i've just been updating mostly on monday because i seemed to always finish a chapter by that time. but now school stuff is at full swing so i couldnt write as much as i would've liked to. 
> 
> anyway, idk when the next chapter is coming. my pool of inspiration for this fic seems to be very deep and i'm still not at the bottom so hopefully i won't suddenly abandon this. also thank you so much to everyone who read the fic, left kudos and commented!


	7. Case of the Two Shopkeepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> farrier appears! (finally) peter and collins team up and go investigating together.

 

Hogsmeade at winter was a sight to behold. Even to a person such as Peter who had lived his whole life surrounded by magic, Hogsmeade was a magical place through and through. Tall, crooked roofs reaching for the morning sky slept their winter dream under heavy layers of snow, homes and shops, cottages and businesses exhaling smoke through chimneys, some of which were so thin they seemed to be about to crumble in the slightest breeze. A fresh gust swept through the village, bringing cold mountain air from the nearby peaks, whispering. A crowing rooster somewhere replied to the wind.

With it being early morning, not many people were up and about outside, most shops still closed, and even the older students from Hogwarts who usually spent their weekends in the village were absent still. Rarely had Peter seen the High Street so empty as it was right now. He trudged along after Collins, the hems of his winter robes frosty with snow. He focused too hard on trying to walk in Collins’ tracks in the tall snow, causing him to nearly walk into the Auror’s back when he stopped. Peter looked up.

“Are you hungry?” asked Collins, rather chipper for someone who must have spent the entire night sleeping on a chair. “You must be famished. I’ll get you something.”

Peter nodded slightly, and followed Collins into the Three Broomsticks Inn which was just as abandoned as the main street they’d walked in from. Peter wasn’t sure if the inn was open for the day at all, but Collins didn’t seem to care, and after a second thought, Peter preferred it this way—he wasn’t sure what other rumours would take flight in Hogwarts if he was seen by the others just waltzing in with an Auror in tow—well, he didn’t want to think about it.

Despite looking rather surprised at the sight of the two, the young waiter cleaning one of the tables did not say anything. Though Peter had rarely visited this particular inn on the weekends – he wasn’t a fan of rowdy places – Collins seemed to be right at home.

“Up,” said Collins, pointing towards the stairs in the back when Peter was about to sit by a table. He furrowed his brows, and looked at Collins questioningly, but the Auror quenched his curiosity quickly. “I’ve a room upstairs. What—you thought I was staying in Hogwarts?”

Having thought just that, Peter ducked his head in embarrassment, and followed a chuckling Collins up the stairs a few steps behind. They were by the landing when a disembodied voice stopped Collins in his tracks.

“Mr. Collins?” called out Mrs. Woodcroft, the owner and permanent resident of the pub. She was somewhere downstairs, but when Peter turned around almost in sync with Collins, he didn’t see anyone. “You got a notification from the post office while you were out last night—”

“Ah, thank you Mrs. Woodcroft,” said Collins, slipping past Peter like a flimsy eel, and stopped before the old woman as though he was trying to hide Peter from her. Mrs. Woodcroft looked over the Auror’s shoulder, recognition clear in her warm brown eyes, but her attention was diverted to Collins when the man grabbed the piece of paper that she was holding in her hands. “Would you prepare us some breakfast? Poor lad’s not eaten since lunch.”

“Which I am entirely sure is your fault,” said Mrs. Woodcroft impassively, and pushed her crescent glasses up the bridge of her small nose. She glanced at Peter once again, and though Peter could not read anything off her face, he felt his face heat up once again, blushing at an invasive thought.

“Yes, yes,” Collins nodded, not bothering to explain what actually had happened. “It’s… a Ministry matter.”

“Ah. Then I’ll put it on the Ministry’s tab.”

Peter hadn’t much time to look around upstairs – he’d never had a reason to be there before – as Collins practically pushed him inside a small room and closed the door behind him. Peter stood in the middle of the bright room like a statue, watching as Collins walked up to one of the two windows to draw the heavy curtains. On his way to the other window, Collins flicked a wrist, igniting a few lamps and candles. He stopped by the other window, looked outside for a few beats as though he was surveying the outside word, and plunged the room into semi-darkness.

“Sit down,” the Auror ordered when a knock came from the door. Peter sit on the first available place nearest to him, which ended to be a bed. He slid to the edge, feeling rather self-conscious. For a moment he wondered how he would feel if he was in his dormitory bedroom alone with Collins, and had the Auror sit on his bed, which was Peter’s only private space in Hogwarts. It would have been like having Collins over in his bedroom back at home in Portsmouth.

Silverware clattered, and glass clinked. Collins drank a full glass of what smelled like gillyweed in one shot, placing the glass outside the tray that he had just slipped onto the table. Collins swallowed a burp.

“I need to fetch something from the post office. I won’t be gone for long,” informed Collins quickly, and Peter jumped to his feet when the Auror passed by him on his way to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, Collins turned back. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Peter swallowed and nodded. He stood there for long minutes after the door had been closed, leaving him alone to his thoughts. He would have continued to do so until Collins came back if not for his stomach growling loudly at the sweet smell of raspberry jam slowly drifting by his nose. Surely, he hadn’t eaten anything since before he went to detention yesterday. His conversation with Tommy in the greenhouse felt like a lifetime ago, but at the same time, it was as though only an hour had just passed since then. So much had happened on Friday that just the thought of those made Peter feel exhausted—he was hoping that Saturday would be more peaceful. His private detective services would have to wait until Monday while he recuperated on the weekend. He had an entire week to recover from.

Gibson thought otherwise.

After Peter had hung his robes, now decorated with melting snow around the edges, and sat by the table with the intention of devouring all he could see on the platter, he felt the left side pocket of his pants buzz as though he was keeping a pissed off wasp in there. Having completely forgotten about it, Peter pulled out his two-way parchment with mild surprise. Once he unfolded it, the paper settled down, no longer notifying him of a new message.

_Peter. I found something about the Prefect carriage. Meet somewhere afternoon?_

Peter stared at the message. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but it must have been Gibson. He had completely forgotten about his conversation with the Ravenclaw student less than a day ago, but now it all came flooding back. He glanced at the door, expecting Collins to return right that moment and catch Peter red-handed – maybe even confiscate his two-way parchment – but the door stayed blissfully closed.

Leaving his breakfast half-finished, Peter quickly rummaged through the room in search for something to write with, mentally apologizing to the Auror when he was forced to open a worn leather bag set neatly underneath the table. Peter tried not to linger on the objects he saw inside – nothing out of ordinary – until his hands came across a folded photograph paper. Curiosity got the better of him, and Peter cautiously unfolded the picture, trying not to dwell on the reason why he was acting so invasively.

The yellowed paper held the photo of a younger-looking Collins wearing dress robes, and a man somewhat older than Collins in a suit, standing next to each other. In the background was a garden of what must have been a manor. Collins, grinning from ear to ear, was swinging on his legs happily, first opening a scroll of his graduation certificate and then turning towards his older, scowling friend before elbowing the man in the side and pointing at the photographer, his mouth moving in soundless words. On the corner of the photograph was a solitary number inked that supplied Peter with enough information: _’31._

Collins must have graduated Hogwarts nine years ago, which meant he was nine years older than Peter. _Strange_ , he clearly remembered Madam Pomfrey claiming that Collins had been still visiting the infirmary as close as five years prior. The nurse was an old lady though, just a matter of months until she would retire and give the position of Hogwarts matron to her daughter.

Peter shook his head. He was wasting time, and he did really have no justification to stick his nose into other people’s private lives, even if that person was someone who Peter found himself to be really fond of for some reason. He repressed the remainder of his curiosity, folded the intriguing photograph, and grabbed the muggle pen perched in a socket inside the bag. Peter hoped his two-way parchment would still work—he had to admit that muggle pens were more convenient than quills which were to be dipped in separate ink bottles.

Without wanting to further his thoughts on the possible conception of self-inking quills – really, how has no one come up with the idea yet? – Peter quickly jotted down his response to Gibson’s message: _O.K. Library?_

The reply came within moments as though Gibson had been staring at his paper all this time.

_No. I just saw George there. He asked me if I knew where you were. Where are you?_

Peter frowned. He wondered why George just couldn’t write him a message if he so wished to know of Peter’s whereabouts, but he didn’t want to think about George right now. He had to come up with – yet another – lie. Tommy must have been aware that Peter was taken to the infirmary after yesterday afternoon, but if George didn’t know of it, that would suggest that either the two of them had yet to talk to each other or Tommy had kept it a secret. If the latter was the case, Peter was grateful. Maybe George was still angry with Peter, but that didn’t mean they were not best friends anymore.

He wiped his fingers sticky from the jam in his pants before grabbing the pen.

 _Being questioned by the Auror. Again._ He needed to change the subject quickly. _So where should we meet?_

_How about the Room of Requirements? We need a secure place, and I’ve a bunch of books to show._

_Do you think it will show up for the both of us?_ Peter had never found it before. He had heard stories of the Room of Come and Go, but he knew that it would not reveal itself if he went with the intention of finding the room itself, and never had he needed a place so desperately for it to appear to him.

_Don’t worry, I’ve been there. It’s on the seventh floor. A sure way to reveal it is to just walk past opposite the Troll tapestry three times while thinking about it._

Just as Peter penned an affirmative reply, he felt the air shift in Collins’ rented bedroom before he heard the tell-tale pop that still gave him a feeling of slight nausea at the memory of first apparating. He wrinkled the paper into his fist on instinct, and turned around to see Collins already on the task of looking for something within the solitary wardrobe in the room.

“You’re back?” asked Peter conversationally, and carefully slipped the pen back inside Collins’ bag, closing it with his foot while keeping his eyes trained on the Auror.

“Aye,” mumbled Collins. “Wind’s picked up,” he said, as way of explanation why he had chosen a short-cut back from the post office.

“What are you looking for?” Peter continued, slipping the two-way parchment inside his pants pocket slowly. He winced when the paper gave out a crinkling sound, but Collins was making enough noise to cover it up.

“A-ha!” Collins exclaimed and whirled around. “Knew I left it in one of my coats.” Peter glanced behind him, examining the disarray in which Collins had left his outfits inside the closet. The Auror waved a fisted hand in the air, garnering Peter’s attention.

“What is it?” Peter wasn’t sure if Collins was getting tired of his questions, but Peter was. Collins took a long moment to flip the golden coin between his fingers, and then glanced at Peter. He smiled. Peter didn’t like that smile. “What?”

“Say,” started Collins, smiling suspiciously. “Do you plan on signing up for my Apparation course?”

Peter furrowed his brows. “Obviously,” he said as though he’d just been asked if he had ever used magic in his life.

“How about I give you a private lesson?”

“Right now?” Peter blurted out in surprise. Collins raised an eyebrow as he slipped the coin inside his coat, and moved about the bedroom once again.

“Yes.”

“No thank you,” said Peter. The memories were still too fresh. “I will apparate only in monitored class environment.”

Collins chuckled. “Alright, alright, I get it. But—” he stopped right next to Peter’s chair and crouched down. He didn’t seem to mind that Peter’s legs were in the way as he reached under the desk for his bag. “—I’m giving you a chance to come with me. I’m pursuing a new lead.”

Peter snapped his back straight. His reaction to the news was clear, making Collins let out a loud, entertained laugh.

“Can I?” asked Peter dubiously. He really, _really_ wanted to go with Collins, but he wasn’t sure if he was actually allowed to do so. He knew he wasn’t, that Dippet would never allow Peter to leave school grounds in the middle of a term without a proper reason, but—if Collins had just asked him so casually, that must have meant he could, couldn’t he? He’d already left the infirmary for Hogsmeade, and he was pretty sure he shouldn’t have done that in the first place.

“We’ll be back before they know it,” said Collins, throwing the long strap of the bag over his shoulder. The way he said _we_ sent a warm, fuzzy feeling down Peter’s chest. It was almost like he was partners with a real Auror! “But we will have to apparate.”

Peter took a deep breath. His stomach, full with breakfast, churned at the thought. “Where are we going?”

Collins’ smile grew into a grin, and handed Peter a grey coat from his dresser. Peter hesitated for a moment before accepting it, and his suspicions were confirmed as the coat’s sleeves flopped over his hands. Collins waited until Peter was ready to go, and then took hold of his wrist.

“Dublin.”

“Dublin?!”

“Squeeze your stomach.”

“Collins, wait!”

 

There was a peculiar shop that existed in multiple places all over the world, but still stood under one single address. Though moving shops were not particularly common for they required constant relocation in order to avoid detection by authorities due to the illegal nature of their business, they could still be found fairly easily if one moved in the right circles and knew the right people.

But this one business, though appearing as a simple moving shop, never left its spot in actuality. While its real location was unknown due to layers of concealing spells that not even the greatest wizards and witches were able to see behind nor undo, charmed doors could be found in various cities, mostly in dark alleyways where such doors were not an uncommon sight. One just had to step through the door that led to nowhere with a clear image in their mind of their desired destination, and the doorknob would open the entrance of the real shop, hundreds and thousands of miles away. It was kind of like the Room of Requirement, always there, but only ever granting access if one needed it the most.

Not only this, but the shop was actually two businesses in one, stuck in an endless war between its two owners—a sister and brother whom could not be more different. The only similarities between them was exhausted in their skin tone, their short temperament and height, and their claim to the entire building.

Collins seemed to know a lot not only about the shop itself, but the owners as well. He described them in great detail.

One of them was the younger sister, Maybell – surname unknown – a short, quirky woman who owned _Maybell’s Magical Menagerie_ , a cosy menagerie on the first floor, full of fantastical beasts and loads of accessories needed for the care of these creatures. She sported messy, rust-coloured curls on top of her head, and a pair of humongous glasses that enlarged her kind eyes. She appeared mostly as a scatter-brained and clumsy person who often lost her train of thoughts while speaking, and seemed to misplace everything, but her vast knowledge on the care of mystical beasts was paralleled only by her compassion for them. She loved and understood her customers as much as she did her beloved creatures, and always greeted her guests with a warm welcome and the promise of satisfying service.

The older brother, Farrier – first name unknown – was a short, rather reserved man, and owned _Farrier’s Flying Fixtures_ on the second floor, a crowded, rickety store of quality – and slightly less legal –  flying and quidditch equipment that he produced himself in his workshop. He had cropped muddy brown hair, and always squinted as though he refused to wear glasses, unlike his sister. He exuded a professional aura that suggested that he had answers to all questions regarding quidditch and broomsticks, and had a strange gait walking with a limp that led to rumours of fabricated pasts such as the one that claimed he was a disgraced quidditch player who, in a blinded chase for glory, had caused the death of one of his teammates, and ended up with such a horrible injury that left him with the limp, unable to fly ever again. However, he never seemed to rise to these rumours—the only thing that could ruffle his feathers was Maybell and vice versa.

Not much was known as to how the two apparent siblings had gained ownership of the magical house—they both claimed to have inherited it from an old door-maker wizard whose charmed doors stood in their various locations to this day. Their clientele was vast, but tight-lipped, and one who invited their friends to the shops were responsible for the new customer.

Apparently, Collins trusted Peter enough to take him to Farrier’s shop. According to the young Auror, the only door to the shop on the British Isles was located in a shady district within Dublin – as if the whole city wasn’t shady enough – and even there Collins had a hard time finding his way across the labyrinth-like alleys. They wandered the district until they came across a boarded up shopfront with a dingy entrance. If Peter had come across such a sight in Diagon Alley, he would have walked right past without paying it any mind.

“Right,” Collins inhaled, and combed back his askew hair, flattening stray strands against his skull with little success. Peter watched with mild confusion as Collins fixed his necktie as though he was about to meet a girl he fancied, his chest rising rapidly. “I’ll go in first.”

“Do I just—” Peter began, twisting his fingers nervously. He felt his cheeks warming up when Collins looked at him, and even in the greyness of the alley, Collins’ eyes were ridiculously blue. “What do I do?”

“Door’s a portkey. So just—grab the knob, think about _Farrier’s Flying Fixtures_ and step in.”

Peter nodded, putting on a confident façade. When Collins turned back towards the door, he frowned, the only outward display of his displeasure at Collins’ behaviour. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but more than that, Peter didn’t like his own reaction. His feelings concerning the older man were an enigma, and Peter had no capacity to ever deal with them.

The door closed with a soft thump, tearing Peter from his vicious thoughts. Cautiously, he looked around, feeling as if he was being watched—he felt pinpricks on his back, but no matter where he turned, the narrow alley was completely deserted.

He had been feeling like they were being followed right after they arrived inside the muggle city. The park, where Collins had apparated them to, was empty as it was still early in the morning, but the city around them seemed to be fully awake unlike Hogsmeade. They blended into the cityscape and the grey crowd of muggles perfectly. Peter had never been to Dublin, but Collins didn’t leave him much time to stare, pulling Peter along with quickened steps as though he, too, could feel the eyes on their backs despite the appearance of a pair of a young man hurrying to work and a student headed for school.

When a shadow passed by the corner not far from Peter, he let out a scared whimper, and practically fell inside the shop. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, Peter was too disoriented to register his environment. He didn’t even realize that he had just apparated. The doorknob was much more talented at apparating than Collins.

“Oh?” came a surprised voice. It was neither Collins’ nor Farrier’s, because this person sounded like a woman. Peter opened his eyes and moved them around cautiously.

He found himself in a cosy shop, dominated by warm colours, filled with a constant background noise that only various creatures could produce, and a strange smell that Peter couldn’t decide if he could stomach any longer or not, despite the calming nature of the atmosphere that enveloped him.

“Oh dear, you look quite sick.”

Peter, still on the floor, heaved a few times before he felt like he was not going to throw up on the soft carpet that he was kneeling on. He accepted the hand that was reaching towards him, and let the short woman pull him up with surprising strength. He looked up.

The woman standing before him must have been Maybell, the owner of the menagerie, based on Collins’ descriptions. The Auror had sounded like he’d visited both shops frequently, and with it being right under Farrier’s, who was Collins’ good friend, it was not a surprise. As to why Peter had ended up in Maybell’s shop instead of _Farrier’s Flying Fixtures_ was a mystery, but Peter was too overwhelmed by the trip of hundreds of miles to care.

“Are you here to buy your best friend for life?” asked Maybell, chirping like a bird, and clasped her hands in excitement. She flitted back behind her chaotic counter. There was just so many stuffs on top of it, many of which was unknown to him, Peter couldn’t even begin to decipher each of them when he glanced at the objects. “Your face tells me that you care for many different creatures, don’t you? I think… I’ve just the perfect companion for you!”

Peter was pretty sure his face was telling something entirely different, but he was still trying to orient himself to say anything. Maybell was talking enough for the two of them, even when she wasn’t actually talking, like right now, as she hummed a happy tune while focusing on a task that busied her to the point where she seemed to have completely forgotten that she had a customer at all. Then, just at the thought of it, her face popped into view from underneath the counter, her enlarged eyes blinking at Peter rapidly.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get that—what did you say your name was?” she blinked again, pursing her lips, and tipped her head to the side like a curious creature would at something it didn’t understand.

“I—I didn’t say,” Peter stuttered, still holding onto a shelf to keep himself upright. He felt his legs having rooted into the ground so firmly, yet his knees were still wobbling like they were made of jelly.

“Ah,” said Maybell. “Well, nice to meet you _I Didn’t Say._ I am Maybell, and you are in my magical menagerie!” she flicked her hands as she spread her arms to motion around the large, but still cluttered shop. “Would you mind telling me just who recommended my humble shop to you?”

“Uh… I—” Peter looked around, “I think there has been a mistake, I—was supposed to—uh—to Farrier’s Flying Fixtures?”

If Collins’ tales were to be trusted, Maybell and this Farrier person were supposed to be mortal enemies. Despite that, and much to Peter’s surprise, upon the mention of Farrier’s name, the exact opposite of what Peter had been expecting happened; Maybell’s face lit up, and she clapped excitedly.

“How lovely! I will call him right away, just a moment,” exclaimed Maybell and turned around, mumbling about faulty doors and portkeys not working properly—Peter guessed it might have had to do with his arrival to the menagerie instead of the quidditch shop.

Maybell walked up to a decorated archway behind which Peter spied a staircase disappearing into the rest of the building, but before the woman could as much as take a deep breath to call out Farrier’s name, voices hit their ears—one of which was unmistakeably Collins.

“Actually, I’m here on Ministry business. I’d like to talk with your sister.”

“She’s downstairs, but by the sounds of it, I think she’s got a customer,” said another voice, deeper, raspier than Collins’ smooth tones. The staircase creaked ominously as the two neared the menagerie. A part of Peter wanted to hide away—Merlin, what was he even doing there? The adults were talking, and Peter suddenly felt like a little kid again.

Just when Peter had nearly given in to the urge and slipped away behind a shelf to pretend that he was not there anymore – he should have stayed outside the door in Dublin, nay, he should’ve stayed in the infirmary – Collins emerged from beneath the archway, immediately greeted by Maybell, just long enough for Peter to change his mind.

“What brings you here, Mr. Auror?” asked Maybell, deepening her voice as she addressed Collins seriously, and then giggled joyfully. Peter listened eagerly as he hid behind an enormous display cabinet with uncountable shelves—many of the objects perched on the shelves appeared to be worthless junk, and only some open chests and casks of various sizes seemed to hold useful things. At least that’s what Peter thought of the swirling glass beads sitting neatly in a velvet-padded chest that caught his eyes first—he knew not of their purpose, but he wanted one. Next to it was a large egg-shaped rock covered in moss, perched on a tray of soil and verdant grass. He wondered what dragon had such eggs; maybe it was a hybrid.

The conversation beyond continued without Peter.

“I thought you had a customer, May,” Farrier was saying. “Or have you let out that evil spawn of a niffler again?”

“Don’t say that about Tiara!” whined Maybell, stomping a little. Peter raked his memories for a Care of Magical Creatures class in fourth year when they studied about nifflers: small quadrupedal creatures of dark fur and long snouts, extremely attracted to shiny things—exactly like the creature that was lurking behind the objects on the shelf right in front of Peter’s eyes.

The niffler, probably Tiara, judging by the small diadem perched on its head, stared at Peter with its beady black eyes. Peter stared back.

Maybell continued: “I was actually speaking to a customer who was looking for your place, Farrier. And who—was here just now.”

The niffler slowly reached for the – extremely shiny – marble balls while still staring at Peter.

“Was it a lanky, blond lad in an oversized coat?” asked Collins suddenly.

Peter stared back at the niffler and slowly shook his head. The niffler’s small hands stopped for a moment.

“Exactly!”

In a flurry of movement that was too quick to follow, the niffler snatched a bead out of the chest, and as it turned around to leave the scene of the crime while it tried to fit its newest loot inside its pouch, the kleptomaniac creature knocked over the egg-rock right next to it. Peter’s hand shot out and caught the egg mid-air, nearly crushing his knuckles against the ground as he hadn’t expected it to be so heavy.

“Peter?” came Collins’ question, and two pairs of feet thundered over to where Peter was crouching on the floor in a very compromising position.

“It wasn’t me,” was the first thing Peter said, looking between a confused Collins who was about to scold him, and a surprised Maybell who gasped as soon as she noticed what Peter was holding. She lurched forward and snatched the rock out of Peter’s hands.

“So this is where I put it!” she exclaimed in relief and gently prodded the rock with her fingertips to check if the egg was unharmed. “I’ve been looking for it all morning.”

Peter climbed to his feet and dusted off his pants; he chanced a glance at Collins, but shrunk back as soon as he looked at the Auror. Collins was furrowing his eyebrows as if he was angry with Peter, but thankfully, Peter’s next question to Maybell lightened the mood a bit, blurting it out without thinking.

“What kind of dragon egg is it?”

Maybell was turning the rock-shaped egg from side to side, up and down in front of her face as she shuffled back to her counter. A man, whom Peter assumed was Farrier, was leaning against a support beam near the stairs, smoking a pipe that seemed to be a simple branch just snapped off a tree outside.

“Hmm,” hummed Maybell loudly, examining the egg with a magnifying glass. “I’m not sure. I think… it might be… just a rock.”

Collins let out an audible sigh. “Alright, Maybell, can I ask you some questions?”

The witch smiled brightly as she carefully placed the simple rock on a bed of fur behind her as though she was still handling a dragon egg. Peter was beginning to think that Maybell wasn’t quite as sound as Collins had described her.

“Of course, shoot away.”

“Has anyone purchased a Swooping Evil, or venom from you recently? As recently as last week.”

When Maybell turned back to Collins, she looked downright shocked. Even Farrier seemed to stop smoking, and Peter waited with bated breath—partially because of the tension that suddenly surfaced in the menagerie – even the creatures quietened – and partially due to Farrier’s smoke. It smelled awful, like henbane—Peter wondered if smoking dried hensbane leaves produced the same anaesthetic effects as its milk. For one, he was feeling his brain going numb from the smell of it.

“Oh dear,” said Maybell, “I’m not supposed to reveal my customers’ personal information.” She blinked rapidly behind her glasses, eyes even wider behind the magnifying lenses.

Collins sighed and reached deep into his coat’s inside, producing his Auror’s badge. Maybell pouted, as though she’d been forced into a corner.

“B-but I really can’t!” she objected, though she did sound like she wanted to help.

“May, he’s just doing his job,” Farrier interjected with a tired sigh.

“So am I!”

“Maybell,” said Collins. The witch looked at him with big, pleading eyes as though she was begging Collins not to force her to give up such a private information. “Look at the kid. He’d been attacked twice since last week. In _Hogwarts_. And I’m—” Collins exhaled, bracing himself, “I’m not a step closer to the answer. So just please—”

Peter ducked his head as both owners stared at him in shock, Maybell more so than Farrier.

Maybell shuffled behind her counter for a bit, placing her weight from one leg to another, her fingers flittering without anything to hold onto as she was thinking. Then, after what felt like an hour, she sighed out a meek _‘alright’_. Peter pulled Collins’ coat around his torso tighter as though it would give him some more protection against something he wasn’t sure about, and keenly watched Maybell as she looked through inside her counter, objects clattering loudly in the still tense silence.

She then flipped out a thick notebook that looked about to burst with stray pages hanging out like tongues, a simple strap trying its best to keep them contained.

“Oh, Merlin’s beard,” said Maybell then, shocked and wide-eyed like an imp caught red-handed.

“What is it?” asked Collins, stepping up to the counter. Maybell whipped out a tree branch—until she cast with it, making Peter realize that it was definitely not a simple tree branch, but a legitimate wand. The spell flipped through the pages once more, like a torrent of air, but whatever Maybell was looking for, it could not be found.

“That exact page seems to be missing,” she turned the pages over and over, leaning down so close to the notebook that her nose touched the paper. She inhaled loudly, as though sniffing the book would reveal the torn page’s secret.

“What do you mean by missing?” Collins asked, his demanding tone not being missed by anyone. Peter slinked into the background. It seemed that whenever they took a step forward in the investigation, something would cast them two steps backwards. Were they ever going to catch the culprit? He seemed to keep evading them.

“I document every purchase in my notebook,” Maybell explained, pressing an accusing index fingr against the offending book, “but—how can it be gone? Had I left it on the counter? No—that’s not possible. I never leave it on the counter… unless when I do…”

“Maybell,” came Farrier’s sombre grunt. He was still leaning against the wooden beam, but his pipe was gone from his mouth. “You don’t remember your customers?”

“I never forget a face!” Maybell exclaimed in her own defence. “Except when I do. And I can’t seem to recall the man who I sold my last Swooping Evil to… I’m sorry, Collins. I really want to help, but—”

Collins lifted a hand. “It’s alright Maybell. Thank you for willing to break your rules to help the investigation.”

Maybell was pouting, her eyebrows arched when Peter looked at the witch. He could feel the spine of an idea coiling inside his head, but it only came to completion when Maybell looked at him, as though she was apologizing to him too—as if she thought she was responsible for Peter having been attacked.

“Collins, didn’t you say that the shops are invitation-only?” Peter spoke up after minutes of hesitation. He wanted to wait more before proposing his – probably stupid – idea, but he didn’t want to risk being too late. It wouldn’t hurt to try, though, would it? “How do you know which customer was invited by whom?”

For his question, Peter looked between Maybell and Farrier, secretly waiting to be reprimanded for having misunderstood something that Collins had told him. But still Peter pulled his shoulder back and lifted his chin so as to appear more of an adult than a child. He had no idea how it would work while wearing Collins oversized coat.

Maybell looked enlightened as though she had completely forgotten about it—she probably had. Farrier looked impressed, and sent Peter’s way an acknowledging nod, but there was a crease of revelation on his face, betraying him that neither had he thought of it. Collins shifted beside Peter, but Peter resisted the urge to glance at the Auror—he might’ve risked beaming at Collins as though he was fishing for compliments.

“We use special coins,” said Farrier, pushing away from the wall. His strange gait was more prominent after standing still for so long. He reached into his pocket, and, with a metallic clink, flung a shiny coin into the air that Peter scrambled to catch with both hands. “Without one in your possession, none of the portkeys work.”

Peter examined the golden coin in his hands. It was ornamental, something that only goblin metal arts could produce. On one side was a curved broom in a loop, while on the other was a fluffy ball of puffskein with its long tongue spelling out the letter ‘M’.

“I will personally check every member who’s ever requested a second coin,” said Maybell then, her bushy eyebrows furrowed in such determination that filled up Peter with determination of his own.

“That’s great, Maybell,” said Collins, sighing in relief. “Send an owl—or something if you find anything.”

“Aye!” Maybell saluted.

Peter reached out with his arm to hand the coin back to Farrier, but the man shook his head.

“Keep it. It’s yours.” There was a ghost of a smile playing in the corner of his lips, and Maybell beamed at Peter with a pearly white grin; now he could come to this place whenever he wanted—could. He needed to learn how to apparate first.

And apparate he did with Collins from that shady Dublin alleyway back to Collins’ room in the Three Broomsticks Inn in Hogsmeade. And it was still before noon.

Collins plopped down on his bed and flopped onto his back with a loud sigh. He looked up as Peter neatly folded his coat over the back of a chair and took his own – now dry and warm – robe off the hanger.

“Do you want me to take you back to Hogwarts?”

Peter’s hand shot into the air to stop the Auror. “I’ll walk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybell is not my creation; she was created by a lovely and amazing asmr artist called 'midnight blue', and as you can guess, her two 'maybell's menagerie' videos are two of my [favourite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kocWXDJCNLo) [asmr videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-Jg5t5ZYjw%22) ever.
> 
> also, i'm just past a very stressful period of time, but i'm done with uni more or less. not sure if i can go back to weekly updates because all the anxiety i got from uni has drained me, but i definitely have more time now. again, thank you all so much for reading, commenting and leaving comments. i really appreciate it!
> 
> reach out to me @ gyunikum on twitter


	8. Case of the Artefact and the Seeker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gibson sheds light to some questions. lots of action! the attacker appears! no rest for peter.

 

Peter found himself having to stop his thoughts from revolving around the Room of Requirements as he made his way up to the seventh floor. Other students in the school looked at him the same as the past week, no sign of brand new rumours circulating about him. Things were finally starting to go back to normal—of course a single week was hardly enough for anyone to forget the attack at the bridge, but with classes having started, students were forced to divert most of their attention from such matters towards studying.

With such knowledge in his possession, Peter had no qualms that he would ever be able to act as if nothing happened. He knew so much more than any other student around him, and some moments, he wasn’t sure if it was better for him to know all this, or if he should have made sure to stay oblivious. As Marcus had once said, when one of their conversation had steered towards the boiling Muggle war, _ignorance was bliss_. Maybe—maybe he could have gone back to being a normal student. But Peter had been attacked twice, and he had no choice but to be an unwilling – or not so – participant of this dangerous chase. Ignorance was indeed a bliss, but if Peter was going to be targeted, then he’d rather see it coming and be prepared.

And to be prepared, he needed information. He needed to know. He needed to learn the details, the who, the why, and the how—and then he needed to learn new spells to protect himself and his friends. Dementors were – hopefully – no longer a threat within Hogwarts’ walls, but the assortment of spells Peter had been taught the past six years were all basic and useless in case a duel—a duel that was real, not the simulated ones the House sometimes held in the duelling turrets in secret. Those duels were not to the death—Peter needed more than just a disarming charm, a smokescreen spell or a knockback jinx. He needed more than just Professor Quentin Trimble’s _Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection._

He would have to ask Collins for such spells, because the teachers in Hogwarts would most definitely reject his request—and knowing Peter’s recent past, they would have a good enough idea why Peter would want to learn spells that were not in the curriculum. Gibson might help too—he was smarter than Peter, and Ravenclaws were notoriously good at duelling. Gibson would have some advice for Peter on how to improve, if not, at least his offensive. Maybe ask a Gryffindor to teach Peter—duelling styles varied by person, but there were similarities between the members of a given House, and Peter had taken part in enough Founder Duel rounds since he could sign up for them in third year to learn the styles of each House: for example, Gryffindors tended to be offensive, because for them, offense was the best defence. Hufflepuffs – and Peter as well – tended to favour defensive spells, exhausting their foes while hurling a few well-timed attacks in-between. Ravenclaws were all about tactics and strategy, they were all quick to learn the weaknesses of their enemies to exploit them during the duel; and Slytherins were cunning, never shying away from utilizing more drastic spells if it meant triumph, never showing just how clever they actually were.

Peter needed to stop being defensive all the time if he wanted to learn the truth. The first step, he would have to take with Gibson. Collins would come later.

Sensing his thoughts, the Room of Requirement opened its doors to a spacious study with Gibson already inside, before Peter could actually realise that he had already reached the seventh floor, and had been pacing back and forth just before the wall that Gibson described to him.

“Glad you made it here,” said Gibson as a greeting. Peter looked around the room filled with bookshelves and empty desks, as though they were in some sort of unknown part of the Library. On the table next to Gibson were several books piled on top of each other, and long parchments—a quill rested in Gibson’s grasp. Peter took a seat from across him. “How was the interrogation?”

“Peachy,” said Peter with a tired sigh. He didn’t want to think about telling Gibson about his morning, so he just stretched his arms as though he had just recently woken up, and leaned closer to the parchment right in front of Gibson. “What’s that?”

Gibson took a deep breath. “Do you want the short or the long version?”

Peter contemplated; the details would be nice, but he was much too eager to hear what Gibson had learned meanwhile. “The short version.”

“I’ve found several books that mention an artefact, which has been in Hogwarts’ possession for centuries. I cross-referenced all the information I could find about it,” Gibson motioned at the closed books, “and from what I gathered, I think this _object_ is some sort of—magical amplifier. It was always mentioned along with the anti-apparation and muggle-repelling charms. I’ve been trying to draw it.”

Peter took a look at the drawing Gibson was trying to pen—several versions of clumsily drawn stones lined the entire parchment. Finally; something that Gibson was not good at.

“Only one book has a description of it—or so I think. It might be a precious gem or a crystal.”

“Why?”

“Look at this,” said Gibson, pulling one of the open books before him, and quickly searched for a passage. “This describes the school’s coat of arms—here. _‘…An Escutcheon of the Second charged with the letter ‘H’ of the Fifth… charged with Or a Lozenge’._

“I understood nothing from this,” Peter shook his head in confusion. “Is this English at all?”

“It’s heraldry language,” Gibson explained, and dipped his quill into ink. He quickly sketched the Hogwarts coat of arms on the other side of the parchment, avoiding having to draw the animals. He finished the shield in one line, separated it into four quarters, and drew a smaller shield in the middle He pointed at it. “This is the escutcheon. On it is the _‘H’_ that stands for _Hogwarts_.”

Peter watched with keen eyes as Gibson drew. The Ravenclaw student was careful with the single letter, getting it down to the smallest detail that he could recall. It was still a horrible drawing though. Even George’s doodles looked better.

“ _’Or a Lozenge’_ is basically a yellow or golden diamond shape,” Gibson explained, somewhat distracted as he focused on decorating the _‘H’_.

“So that’s why you think it’s a gem or a crystal?” asked Peter.

“Not only that, but I think it used to be _inside_ Hogwarts, because—uh,” Gibson began, reaching for another book. For this, he used his wand to find the chapter he was looking for, and then turned it around to show it to Peter when the pages fluttered to the right one. “This book says that among the many crests used for decoration, was one that actually had a function—which the book doesn’t elaborate. The other book, the only one that mentions this diamond shape, is just a compilation of all the symbols used for Hogwarts. It describes the coat of arms by using the one in the Prefect carriage.”

Peter jerked his head up to look at Gibson in surprise. He was far from drawing the connection between the points Gibson had just laid out for him, but he was starting to suspect something.

“So—what do you mean?” asked Peter, glancing at the drawing as though it would give him a definite answer.

“I think there used to be a crest with this artefact somewhere in Hogwarts, and then later it was placed in the Prefect carriage.”

Peter furrowed his brows.

“So this—artefact might be the reason why the train was attacked,” Peter deducted, thinking out loud. “And why the Prefect carriage was gone. It was the attacker’s only way of acquiring the artefact.”

“And he used Swooping Evil venom to make everyone forget,” Gibson nodded. “Except for you.”

Peter leaned onto his elbows and buried his fingers into his hair. What artefact—what was it? What— _object_?

Object.

Dumbledore had mentioned some kind of object—but where Peter had heard Dumbledore mention it, he was not entirely sure, yet he could clearly recall the wizard’s voice as he talked about some sort of object to whomever Peter was eavesdropping on. Collins had said that Dumbledore erased Peter’s memory—and he had also mentioned Winnant along with it. Winnant hadn’t wanted Dumbledore to do it. To erase Peter’s memory.

“I think I know someone who might tell us more about this—artefact,” said Peter, standing up, having already decided that it was time to have a serious conversation with Professor Winnant—about the object, about whatever Dumbledore had erased, and about numbers.

Winnant would know more, and Peter was sure that these large, separate pieces of the puzzle would reveal their connection between each other to Peter. All he had to do was to approach the Hufflepuff Head from the right direction—which Peter still had no idea how to do, but he would cross that bridge when he got there.

“Who?” Gibson frowned. With a flick of his wrist, he tidied up the desk, piling the books on top of each other and rolling up parchments. He, too, stood up, ready to leave.

“Professor Winnant,” said Peter. “I’ll—I’ll get back to you after I talked to him. Thanks for your help here.”

“What?” Gibson asked. Puzzled, he held onto the back of his chair that he was just about to push back.

“I think I should talk to him alone,” Peter suggested. “He already knows I’m involved, but—I don’t want him to tell Professor Hogarth about you.”

Even though it was highly unlikely, seeing as how the two teachers were so hostile to each other – more so Hogarth than Winnant – but still, Peter couldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to be responsible for Gibson getting into detention.

Gibson frowned again, but more so in contemplation than to show his displeasure at Peter’s reasoning. Still, the Ravenclaw boy pushed himself away from the chair and stepped up to Peter.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “But if I get the opportunity to learn more, I will take it without a second thought.”

Peter nodded too, though more vehemently compared to Gibson’s calculated gesture. “I wouldn’t have it another way.” He felt his smile to be less genuine than he intended, but Gibson didn’t seem to notice. The older boy sent Peter a smirk, and left the room with the books floating after him.

Peter exhaled, and glanced around to calm himself. He knew Gibson wanted the same as him, and that he could trust the Ravenclaw student, but Peter also had a feeling that there were parts of the mystery that he should not share with the other—for one reason or another, he wasn’t sure why. Maybe—it was to defend Gibson. He still had no knowledge of the attacks inside Hogwarts, and that had to stay the same until the end.

Maybe—it was because Peter felt—smarter. He knew things neither Gibson nor any other student knew, and this—this made Peter feel somehow—important. He liked it. Despite the nature of it, he liked this feeling of being in the centre of something. Not in the centre of attention, because he could do without it, but the fact that he was important to such great an event.

Was he selfish to feel like this? Was he, as a Hufflepuff, allowed to be selfish like this?

Or maybe, it was something entirely different.

Peter shook his head. This was no time to let doubts fester inside him. He had to be logical and analytical—like a Ravenclaw. He had to be brave and ready, like a Gryffindor. He had to be resourceful and clever, like a Slytherin. He had to be dedicated and impartial like a Hufflepuff.

He had to be more than just a Hogwarts student—he had to be a Dawson.

 

Peter decided to go looking for Professor Winnant after the sun had already set, and the sky outside was darkening rapidly. Between his meeting with Gibson and setting out, he lazed around in the Common Room and the Great Hall, resting and eating, and not answering to anyone’s questions, except for Tommy when the Gryffindor boy had enquired after Peter’s well-being.

It was after four o’clock when Peter got to the herbology tower – there had never been a herbology class held in the tower – in search for Professor Winnant, whose office and living quarters were located on the topmost floor.

However, the moment Peter stepped in, his breath became visible as the temperature suddenly dropped, and he had a feeling of wrongness. The candles and torches lining the wall, spiralling parallel to the spiral staircase were all extinguished. It was colder in the tower than outside. There was even a slight draft of cold air inside.

 _Dementors?_ Peter wondered, but just for a moment. This time, he was prepared. He grabbed his wand and cast _lumos_ to see in the dark interior of the tower, and listened for the tell-tale sounds of one of those foul creatures. When nothing came, Peter stepped onto the stairs and grabbed the railing should a dementor ambush him.

If he fell this time, there would be no Collins to catch him.

Without running into any demetors, Peter was halfway up when he nearly tripped at the sudden sound of a glass breaking. The shrill noise cascaded down the height of the tower like a waterfall, echoing past Peter, and urging him to pick up the pace. He wanted to call out for the professor, but Peter couldn’t find his voice—he noticed his hand trembling, from the overwhelming cold or the fear he hadn’t realized until now, on which he had no time to focus. He glanced back down, wondering if he should have gone back to call for help.

If the attacker was there—no. Peter would be prepared this time. There was no time to waste going back down and searching for Collins or Dumbledore. In whatever way he might have been attacked the second time, Peter knew that he had been unprepared and unarmed. There was no way that he could have been caught off-guard if he had had his wand with him. This time was different.

This time, he had the element of surprise.

The short corridor at the topmost floor was empty – of even portraits – and even colder than the staircase. When Peter arrived, he learned why: the window at the other end of the hallway was smashed, and a freezing gust entered the tower, blowing coldness and snow across the corridor. Peter shivered. He was about to try the door closest to him when he heard a loud thump and the sound of struggle come from the other one, farther down the corridor. Peter quickly put out _lumos_ and flattened his back against the wall.

“ _Glacius Tria!_ ” someone shouted, and Peter heard Professor Winnant suppress a cry of pain into a loud grunt. Peter slipped along the wall with his breath held back, afraid that he would be heard if he as much as exhaled. He was trying to come up with a plan how to best approach the situation, but he was again and again distracted by whatever was going inside.

He had yet to be discovered by whoever had attacked Winnant, which he could use to his advantage. A disarming charm would be best suited as the first step so that the stranger would not be able to retaliate with another attack, but Peter was not familiar with the layout of Winnant’s private quarters, nor did he know _where_ exactly he would need to direct his spell. It would take him precious moments to find the attacker and cast, time which his enemy would use to react quicker than Peter could.

He needed a spell that required no visible point of target. But what spell would incapacitate an attacker whilst avoiding hurting Professor Winnant—who must be frozen solid in a chunk of ice due to the _glacius tria_ charm. Both the Knockback Jinx and _Everte Statum_ needed to be pointed straight at the target, and a smokescreen spell would just hinder him in his grand plan of rescuing the professor. Peter could not risk being found if he decided to first peek into the room to find the infiltrator.

A shield charm would work, but only if Peter knew the level of the attacker’s prowess. There was a high possibility that his shield would be broken upon the first spell, and Peter would just do more damage than help.

He needed a spell that was both offensive and defensive. His list was dolefully short.

“What do you want?” Winnant hissed, stopping Peter in his train of thoughts. He decided to wait a little bit more before revealing himself, hoping that his teacher could hold on for a little longer. The wind outside picked up, whistling so loudly that Peter was afraid it would block out the conversation from inside. Now that he was just a few steps from the window, his robe was rustling loudly as the squall teared at it, blowing icy snow like sharp knives into his face, and his fingers were beginning to freeze.

Peter felt like he was on that bridge all over again; in the cold, alone, desperate, and fearing the appearance of dementors. A part of him was still trying be prepared to cast his patronus charm, even though he kept telling himself that the cold was caused by the broken window, not the presence of a dementor.

“Why do you keep attacking the children?” Winnant continued. His voice was weak, but not his tone. Even imprisoned in ice, the professor sounded threatening. “What are you doing in Hogwarts?”

“J-just shut up!” came the impatient yell. “I’m—I’m asking the questions!” the person stuttered—but it was not from the cold, Peter could hear it in his voice. It was from repressed anger. “And I’m asking one _last_ time… where—is—it?”

“I told you already!”

“Where is it?!” the unknown man shrieked, his voice nearly cracking. He cast something nonverbally that caused Winnant to cry out in pain. Peter grabbed his right hand that twitched with the urge to move, to do something, to save Professor Winnant.

He had to wait. He had to make sure the other man was too distracted with Winnant—then Peter could peek inside and map the room to conjure the best plan possible. He just—needed to muster enough courage to do so.

And—he wanted to hear more. Now he knew that the attacker was actually looking for something within Hogwarts. He’d learned more about the attacker within minutes than the Ministry and the teachers since the first attack.

“I’ve n-no idea w-what you’re t-talking about,” said Winnant defensively, his teeth chattering. The magical ice must have been freezing him at an alarming rate. Peter didn’t know how much time he had, but he felt running out of it faster than he’d expected.

“Don’t l—lie to me!” the other man yelled. “I know D—Dumbledore told you!”

Object. Dumbledore. Told Winnant.

Peter’s memories jostled.

“Where do you keep it?!”

“Dumbledore didn’t tell me anything!”

“Liar. Liar!” The man’s voice cracked into a shriek, an ear-splitting, hysterical shriek that made the hair on Peter’s arms stand up, and for a moment, he was frozen with fear as though the wavering voice of the attacker cast ice around Peter as well.

And then Professor Winnant screamed in pain.

“Do you like it?” the man laughed, bordering on maniacal. Peter’s hands were shaking uncontrollably; no longer could he think straight to come up with a solid plan. He didn’t want to go in there, he didn’t want to face this madman who had bested even a Hogwarts teacher. “I’ve s-something even better—”

Peter couldn’t keep inside the whimper when he heard the sound that came from Professor Winnant. It was—terrifying. He could feel the torturing pain Winnant must have been going through just from his scream. It was in pure, unadulterated agony. Peter wanted it to end. He was sure this was what it must feel like to listen to an unsilenced Fwooper sing.

He wanted to stand up, but he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t obey him. His entire body was resisting his own command to just—do something. Anything.

“I sh-should just do what _they_ did to—to me,” said the man, bitter and just as angry.

“Stop it… please… You don’t have to do this.”

“W-why do I have to be the only one who—who had to—to go through this?” the attacker wondered brokenly, and if Peter hadn’t been so terrified yet so mad at the man for hurting Professor Winnant, he might have felt a sliver of pity for the attacker. Something horrible must have happened to him to drive him this far. “No… n-no. You—you’ll, yes, you’ll know what _they_ ’d done to me—” and then, after a silent moment loaded with tension, “ _Crucio_!”

Before Peter could think, he pushed himself from the wall and kicked in Winnant’s door that had been left ajar.

“ _Lumos maxima!_ ” Peter yelled the moment he stepped through the threshold, and though he had no idea where the attacker was, a blinding flash of light flooded the entire room. Peter, having closed his eyes before casting the spell, now opened them, and looked around without trouble.

He first noticed a pillar of glowing ice that stretched from floor to ceiling, and inside it was Professor Winnant, his head hanging low. As the brightness ebbed away, the next thing Peter saw was a hunching figure dressed in a long, torn coat covering his head. Peter couldn’t see his face, because as soon as the attacker moved, Peter jerked his wand towards the man, and cast a spell.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

The man parried the disarming charm with a flick of a hand, and swung his own wand to retaliate. Peter was quick to cast a _protego_ before the nonverbal spell could reach him. He wasted no time to strike back with the knockback jinx, but that too was blocked by the unknown man simply stepping out of the way. The jinx, instead, hit the window behind him, shattering the glass in a violent and loud explosion. The shockwave sent the man to the floor having been caught off-guard, but Peter’s next disarming charm was still unsuccessful.

Before Peter could get any closer to Winnant to defrost the pillar and free him, a flash of spell whizzed past Peter, right into the large bookcase he was standing near. He was nowhere near when the bookcase toppled over, so heavy and so loud, it was almost as if it had punched a hole through the floor.

“Peter!” Winnant yelled, coming to his senses from the noise. “What are you doing?!”

“Don’t worry— _protego!_ —Professor!” Peter replied, jumping out of the way of yet another spell, directly next to the ice pillar. “Cavalry’s arrived—”

“Get out of here!”

“ _Impedimenta!_ ” Peter cast, and a brilliant turquoise shaft of light left the tip of his wand, and hit the man straight in the chest as he accidentally stepped into it. It caused the man’s movements to slow down as though he was submerged in thick tar. His arm was in a full arch, slowly, slowly travelling forward to strike Peter with a yet-unknown spell. That, Peter was not going to wait around to find out. Nor did he want to know what the other man was trying to yell, his lips moving at the same, snail-like speed.

“You need to get out of h-here and call for help,” Professor Winnant hissed. His lips were blue. He was wide-eyed and panicking, even worse a situation from which he had arrived late to class a few days earlier. If Peter hadn’t been feeling so delirious from the high of the duel, he would have started to panic just seeing the state that his teacher was in.

“I’m really sorry, Professor,” Peter apologized, panting heavily. He cast _incendio_ at the feet of the ice to melt it away without burning his teacher, and braced a hand on his knee to catch his breath. Never had he felt this exhausted after using magic, though he’d never been forced to do so.

“Merlin, I would deduct five hundred points from the House if we had that many!” Winnant yelled in frustration. His hands flailed in the air helplessly as he tried to break free, but the ice seemed to be too strong for Peter’s spell.

“Oh, Professor, there’s no need to—” started Peter, but was cut off by Winnant.

“Watch out!” And the next thing Peter knew, he was falling to the ground after being pushed away by Winnant’s free arm.

The ice exploded into huge chunks and tiny shards, and Peter felt something fly past his face before the stinging sensation settled in. He jerked his hand to his face on instinct, nearly dropping his wand from the pain.

“Shit,” choked out the man from somewhere in the room. Peter shook his head and pushed himself to his knees to look around. He felt blood trickle down his face, along his jaw, down to his chin. He didn’t have time to spare wiping it away.

The attacker was standing by the window, but still it was too dark both outside and inside to see his face. Peter noticed a thick shard of ice lodged inside the man’s thigh as he swayed on his legs. Peter saw the spell in time to cast another shield, feeling confident as the stranger’s attack evaporated upon reaching Peter’s shield without even applying any force to him.

The man waved his wand again, and Peter was ready to parry whatever spell was going to be hurled at him, but nothing happened. He took a step towards the man, and in response, the attacker stepped closer to the window. Snow was quickly piling up on the floor that was already littered with broken objects, charred pieces of paper, and shards of melting ice. A part of Peter wanted to look for Professor Winnant to check on him, but he couldn’t as much as turn his head lest the man use this one moment of inattention to attack.

Something flashed outside. Peter didn’t take any chances.

“ _Ventus_!” A strong, spiralling gust of air hit the man and the summoned broomstick he was just about to grab, and both went flying across the room. He landed on a table that broke into two, platters and goblets clattered loudly, and the broomstick snapped. Peter waited a moment with his wand raised high, but when the man stayed unmoving, seemingly knocked out, Peter whirled around and jumped next to Professor Winnant who was lying on the floor on his back. He wasn’t moving either

A trail of blood was dark on his pale skin.

“Professor!” Peter called out, and grabbed the teacher’s shoulders to shake him awake. Now, Peter allowed himself to panic. He didn’t know what to do—in that moment, every single healing spell he knew flashed into his mind, but he wasn’t sure just which one to cast. He would have cast all at the same time, but there were no outer signs of an injury on Winnant, just the blood that trickled from his nose.

A few moments later, Peter was jerked out of his trance-like shock by glass shattering. He yanked his head towards the source of sound, only to see the attacker gone, having jumped out of the tower to escape on his broken broom. Peter ran to the broken window to look out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the perpetrator, but the wintry wind was even stronger and more freezing so high up. Peter had to take a step back as the wind pushed at him, and he nearly broke his ankle as he tripped in something.

“Francis!” someone called out from the staircase. Hurried steps echoed. Peter looked for whatever he tripped on—it was a broken piece of wood, that could have been anything if not for the beginning of a word carved into the surface. It was a piece of the attacker’s broom.

Peter quickly, and without thinking, pocketed the evidence.

“Mr. Dawson!” And like that, with Peter sitting on the floor in the middle of Professor Winnant’s destroyed room, came Albus Dumbledore, looking very much confused.

“Peter, what—” started Collins, standing behind Dumbledore who stepped into the room cautiously. He was cut off by Peter.

“Professor—!” he cried out, but with his voice gone suddenly, could only point towards his teacher’s body on the other side of the room. Along with Professor Dumbledore and Collins had arrived Gawain, the caretaker – he had nearly canned Peter and George in fourth year when they were caught sneaking out – and strangely enough, Ms. Merrythought too. Perhaps, they were the Hogwarts investigation team formed by Dippet that Collins had mentioned before.

Peter watched silently as Dumbledore checked on Professor Winnant, and with the help of Gawain and Ms. Merrythought, they carefully took him to the Hospital Wing. By that time, Peter’s ears were buzzing. Before leaving with Winnant, Professor Dumbledore had stopped in front of Peter, said something to him, and all Peter could do was nod slightly without understanding whatever he had been told just now.

Then Collins kneeled down by Peter’s side, and squeezed his shoulder.

“Peter,” said the Auror gently, “can you tell me what happened?”

It was obvious, wasn’t it?

Collins’ sharp intake of air signed that Peter had just voiced his thought aloud. The Auror shifted, and slipped in front of Peter to have him look at him. Peter averted his eyes.

“Peter, please.”

“It’s all my fault,” Peter whispered, and continued to stare at the spot where Professor Winnant had been lying unconsciously. Tears were stinging his eyes, and soon enough, he felt a cold droplet trickle down his cheek, followed by another one, and another one until he was crying silently.

Collins shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do with a weeping teenager who’d just duelled some crazy man.

“I’m—I’m pretty sure it’s not,” Collins stuttered, and his hand hovered nearby awkwardly. “Unless you were the one who attacked Winnant, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t you, was it?”

Despite Collins’ awkward laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood, Peter buried his face into his hands and dropped his head between his knees so that he didn’t have to look at Collins, or the room. Merlin, it was his fault that Professor Winnant ended up like this—he should not have played the hero. He should have turned back and looked for Dumbledore or any other professor he would have come across. How could he think that he would be strong enough to defeat the attacker?

What was he thinking? _What was he thinking_?

“It’s my fault,” Peter heaved, gasping for air. He could barely breathe, and his entire body was aching. Blocking all those spells had taken its toll on his muscles, and now that the adrenaline was leaving his body, Peter was so, so exhausted, he could have fallen asleep right there if not for the overwhelming guilt and regret.

“It’s okay,” Collins whispered. Glass and ice cracked under his boots as he moved next to Peter. “You did all you could. Hey.”

Peter sniffled, and let himself be pulled into a warm embrace that seemed to melt his frozen limbs in an instant. Now, he was sweating, and when another cold gust swept across the room through the two shattered windows, Peter shivered. He bit into his lips to stop his teeth from chattering, and to stop himself from weeping out loud.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Collins mumbled, and with his arm around Peter, he pulled him up. Peter leaned against him, feeling his legs wobble like jelly, and watched from the corner of his eye as Collins waved his wand elegantly around the room.

Wherever Collins’ wand was directed, the broken furniture repaired themselves, the glass shards mended themselves back into the decorated windows they had been before the attack—the toppled bookcase slowly rose from the floor as though it was pushed back to its place by an invisible giant – even though giants could hardly fit inside any of Hogwarts’ towers – the books floating back to the shelves, and the room returned to its original state with its neat order that said so much about Professor Winnant. Candles and a fire in the hearth offered warmth and orange light, as though the attack had been just a bad dream.

Peter didn’t care where Collins was taking him until he noticed the corridor leading to the headmaster’s office. The Gargoyle statue guarding entrance on the other end of the hallway stood menacingly. Peter dug his heels into the floor, stopping Collins in his tracks.

“I don’t want to—” Peter whispered, afraid that the Gargoyle might hear him. Collins faced him and placed both hands on Peter’s shoulders.

“I’ll be there with you,” Collins assured. He smiled at Peter encouragingly, though hardly did it anything to Peter’s sudden panic. Merlin, the last thing Peter wanted to do now was to answer to the Headmaster. “If he asks, just tell him what happened.”

Peter chewed on his lower lip, and took a glance at the Gargoyle statue. It stood unmoving. Like a statue. Yet Peter felt as though it was staring at him, into his soul, and saw everything, just like whenever Professor Dumbledore looked at Peter. But the Gargoyle’s stare did not feel like it saw into Peter’s head—not like Dumbledore.

Peter had never been to Dippet’s office. There had never been a reason for him to be invited there. Even after the attack, he hadn’t expected to be called there, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. It was terrifying to be there—what else would be the reason to be there if not for something that a student was going to be held responsible for? In Peter’s case, he’d make a mistake—a huge mistake, and now he was going to have to answer for it.

What if he was about to be expelled?

He couldn’t be expelled for Hogwarts!

“Don’t worry, Peter,” Collins murmured, squeezed his shoulder, and stepped before the Gargoyle statue. “ _Titillando._ ”

Peter stared at Collins in confusion as to why the Auror would just spontaneously cast a tickling hex on a statue made of stone, until the Gargoyle shifted with a crunching grumble of stone slipping on stone, and began to ascend.

Collins nudged Peter forward when the spiral staircase settled down after revealing themselves, and Peter set out with cautious steps. At the top was a set of oaken doors that Collins opened without knocking, and Peter found himself in Dippet’s office. He looked around in slight awe, forgetting his fears for a second.

“Stay here,” said Collins, and strode across the first, biggest room, only to disappear behind a pillar. The room Peter was left in was spacious and circular, with its ceiling reaching high, so tall that none of the candles nor lamps were able to illuminate the topmost corner. On the wall were numerous portraits hung in various shapes and sizes, some empty, some displaying pictures of sleeping people in differing sets and clothes. Upon close inspection of the nearest one, Peter realized that these people were the past headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts. Soft snoring filled the room.

Adjacent to it was another, smaller room, through a short staircase framed by two pillars. In the centre was a large desk holding very few objects on top of it. Behind the desk Peter spied a few bookcases and display cabinets, similar to the ones lining the wall in the room where Peter was, but beyond that, it was too dark to see anything else.

“Oh,” drawled a voice, startling Peter. “Will you look at that, Phyllida?”

Another voice yawned loudly, and Peter looked to the portraits in search for the one who talked. “Ah. The younger Dawson boy. It’s taken him long to get here, hasn’t it, Heliotrope?”

“Aye,” said Heliotrope, and knowing their name, Peter finally found the two headmistresses’ portraits, high up on the wall, by a floating candle that was alit. Their pictures were hung next to each other, and the two women were eyeing Peter. “His brother had taken just three years.”

“This one’s in Hufflepuff, what did you expect?”

If Peter wasn’t so preoccupied with wrapping his mind around that; one, he was in Dippet’s office; two, he’d just rescued Professor Winnant from the Hogwarts Attacker; and three, two headmistresses were talking about Peter and his brother like they knew everything about the Dawson family, Peter would have retorted to the comments politely—but he was still in shock, so he just kept quiet and stared at the gossiping portraits of the two women until the ones around them started waking up. Among the commotion and mumbling, Peter heard Collins’ voice, and the creak of a wooden staircase, the bottom of which he could see behind the central desk up the steps.

The Auror appeared, looking slightly concerned, followed by Headmaster Armando Dippet who was wearing a silk robe, and an unreadable expression on his wizened face. He smoothed a hand down his long beard as he stopped at the top of the steps, while Collins, instead of joining Peter, opted to lean against the pillar, folding his arms across his chest.

Dippet held out an arm, and gestured for Peter. “Come, son, sit down here.”

Peter glanced at Collins, earning a nod, and only then did Peter walk up to the desk to sit down. Dippet took his seat from across him, the backrest of his chair tall and ornate. Behind him on the wall was a huge picture of the previous headmaster succeeded by Dippet, Phineas Nigellus Black, whose portrait was currently reading a book without a care to what was happening in the office.

“What will I do with you, Mr. Dawson?” Dippet sighed, rubbing his chin. Peter swallowed, barely noticing that he had just straightened his back. “You’ve gotten into more trouble in the past week than your brother had during his entire time here.”

“That’s an achievement,” one of the portraits quipped in, but was hissed into silence by the others. The current Headmaster was speaking now.

“Dire times that we have go through now,” Dippet spoke up, “and somehow, you keep being in the centre of all. Why is that, Mr. Dawson?”

Peter opened his mouth to defend himself, but not a word was brave enough to leave his mouth. He looked to Collins for help, but the Auror was staring at the wall opposite him as though he was avoiding eye contact with Peter. As though he was avoiding having to answer to the headmaster of Hogwarts.

Seeing that Peter would not soon answer his question, Dippet continued, resting his hands on the desk. “Let’s start with the most current one—what happened in Mr. Winnant’s room just now?”

Peter was looking for the right words, but he must have taken a long time, because the headmaster talked again.

“Was the attacker there?”

Peter nodded, finding it easier than to open his mouth. He was afraid that his voice would break if he had to talk.

“Did you see his face?”

Peter shook his head. His dissatisfying, non-verbal replies made Dippet exhale through his nose.

“What were you doing in the herbology tower?”

Peter inhaled deeply. Collins had told him to tell the truth. Just tell the truth. Peter didn’t have to lie.

“I was—looking for Professor Winnant.”

“Why?” Never mind. Peter did have to lie. He couldn’t just tell Dippet that he had found out something – possibly – important to the attack on the bridge, and he was on his way to ask Winnant about it, because Peter was convinced that Winnant and Dumbledore knew more than they were letting on.

“I had a question. About his Advanced Arithmancy class.”

Collins shifted. Dippet narrowed his eyes.

“What happened?” Dippet asked. Peter glanced around for some sort of support, and his gaze lingered on Nigellus Black’s portrait for a moment too long—the previous Headmaster was staring at him, having abandoned his book in favour of listening in on their conversation.

“I heard struggle when I was half-way up the stairs,” Peter explained quietly, wringing his fingers that he rested on his lap. “And found the door to Professor Winnant’s room open.”

“Why did you not turn back and seek help?” Dipped asked in genuine confusion. For the first time since he started asking questions, he sounded like he wanted to understand the situation, not just know the details because he was the Headmaster and he had to deal with it.

Peter sucked in his lower lip, faltering. He couldn’t keep Winnant’s cries of pain out of his head, they continued to echo in his mind. “He was torturing him… he had Professor Winnant freezing in ice, and tortured him—with _Crucio_ …”

Collins let out a quiet gasp at the information. Dipped looked somewhat troubled.

“I see. Did you hear the attacker say anything?”

Peter nodded once more. “He was looking for something.”

“What was he looking for?”

“I don’t know. He just called the professor a liar when he denied that he knew where it was.”

“And then you—” Dippet gestured at Peter with both hands, “thought you could take on this person who’d managed to evade us for weeks, and had caught a professor on his own. You risked both of your lives, and for what?”

Peter cast his eyes down in embarrassment, and sniffed. His cheek stretched uncomfortably with dried blood and tears. He couldn’t understand his own actions in the tower now that he was out of that stressful situation, so how could he make Dippet understand?

“I just wanted to help,” Peter whimpered with his throat squeezing around a lump, his voice thin.

“What should I do with you, Mr. Dawson?” Dippet echoed with a deep sigh. He tapped his fingers on the desk. Peter didn’t dare look up, and Collins behind him was awfully silent.

“He should be expelled,” spoke Nigellus Black, his voice booming into the gentle silence. “If he’s not dead by the next week.”

Peter’s heart plummeted, his blood freezing in his veins at the word _expelled._

He could not get expelled! If he did, his whole future would be ruined—his family would be extremely disappointed in him, his father might even disown him, and he would never be employed by anyone for the rest of his life. He would be left homeless without ever having finished his education.

One by one, the portraits around the rooms started voicing their own opinions, some agreeing with Nigellus Black, while others defended Peter, saying that he was just a kid. In between, Peter noticed the entrance opening behind him, but he didn’t know who’d just entered. The person kept quiet.

“Silence,” Dippet spoke firmly, and the sudden uproar in the office dissipated at once. “Nigellus, why should I expel him?”

Peter’s eyes fluttered up, at Headmaster Dippet and the portrait above him.

“He’s broken quite a few rules—”

“All of which were superficial,” Dippet interrupted.

“He’d gotten off Hogwarts Express without permission, thus endangering those on the train.”

“To seek help,” the current Headmaster noted, surprising Peter slightly.

Nigellus Black huffed, but continued listing off Peter’s misbehaviour. “He’s stayed out past the curfew, resulting in an injured House Elf and him being sent to the Infirmary. He’d also entered the Restricted Section without permission—”

“For which he was appropriately punished.”

“—And just this morning, he’d left the Infirmary for Hogsmeade, from where he apparated to Dublin without a license,” the previous headmaster finished, his short, though heavy list.

“ _I_ took him to Dublin,” Collins spoke up after a long time. By the looks of it, Dippet seemed to be aware of Peter and Collins’ little trip to Ireland, thought Peter wasn’t sure if the headmaster knew _why_ they were there. “To a professional Legilimens—no offence, Mr. Dumbledore, but I hadn’t been there.”

“None taken,” spoke Dumbledore lightly.

Peter wasn’t sure which one surprised and puzzled him more—Dumbledore’s presence, or whatever Collins was talking about. Where had he not been present?

“I see,” Dippet murmured. “And did this Legilimens find anything that Albus hadn’t?”

“No,” lied Collins. “But she’d advised against altering or erasing Peter’s memory any further.”

“Duly noted,” Dumbledore quipped, sounding much too light-hearted after being—did Collins just insult the professor? Peter was sure the Auror was referring to something that the three adults were aware of.

“Armando,” addressed the current Headmaster Nigellus Black. “Get rid of the Dawson boy while you can, or Hogwarts will pay for it. He and his family are a curse to our community—they will do anything to keep their neutrality—”

“That’s enough, Phineas!” Dippet bellowed as he slammed a hand against the desk. Peter jumped in his seat and let out a terrified gasp at the suddenness. He’d never seen the Headmaster this furious. “We will speak of this no longer! Hogwarts does not expel students for the deeds of their family.”

“There is war coming, Armando,” Nigellus Black growled darkly, “and you must choose your allies with care.”

Dippet sat back down with a heavy sigh after the portrait disappeared from its picture frame. “Albus, how is Francis doing? Will he recover?”

Dumbledore, directly from behind Peter, replied. “Yes, though Primrose thought it best to send him to St. Mungo’s. She’s also said that had he spent more time in that ice, some of the damage might have become—irreversible.”

He must have been referring to Madam Pomfrey, though Peter had never known the matron’s first name was Primrose. Not that it mattered much: she was one of the best healers in Britain, and if she thought that Winnant’s injuries were too severe for him to remain in Hogwarts’ infirmary, then it was true.

“She said that he was lucky to be freed from the ice when he was.”

Peter didn’t know what to think. Did this mean that if he had gone back to call for help, Professor Winnant might have been wounded even more—or worse, would have died if not for Peter intervening when he did?

Tense silence weighed down on Peter’s shoulders as he waited for one of the adults to speak.

“Armando,” said Dumbledore then, “despite the unfortunate circumstances, if not for Mr. Dawson, Francis would be dead.”

Peter shivered at the last word.

“What do you suggest we do?” Dippet asked, sounding troubled.

“I am sure we can find a solution to Mr. Dawson’s… tendency to attract trouble.” And then, suddenly, there were two large hands on Peter’s shoulders grasping him, and as Peter turned his face towards the ceiling, he saw Dumbledore standing behind him. The professor sent Peter a smile before continuing. “We might even be able to use it to our advantage.”

As to what Professor Dumbledore meant by that, Peter was afraid to find out. A glance at Collins pushed Peter further into panic as the Auror glanced between him and Dumbledore with worry.

Peter was in deep, deep troll shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading and commenting! my motivation for this fic still doesnt seem to be stopping, so i'll keep churning out chapter after chapter while i can. i don't know yet what will happen in the next chapter, but what nigellus black talks about at the end of this chapter will be very, very important.
> 
> also, one of you pointed out something in the previous chapter which was actually a moment of carelessness from me (it's really hard to keep track of EVERYTHING to stay consistent), so, thank you for that, and i will be definitely addressing it in the fic.
> 
> find me on twitter @ gyunikum


	9. Case of the Secrets of Fire and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more and more shadiness rears its head in hogwarts. question is, will peter break, and if he does, at what point?

Rumours spread faster than Dippet could’ve addressed the entire school in the Great Hall at dinner that evening, informing the students that Professor Winnant would be gone until further notice due to personal issues, which the headmaster did not elaborate.

According to these rumours, apparently, some students had been nearby the herbology tower, though, based on the information that reached Peter during dinner did not suggest that the witnesses had also seen the attacker flee; the stories varied from horrible to downright ridiculous – for example, such was the one that claimed a wild hippogriff had swooped down from the sky and plucked Professor Winnant from his tower like some damsel in distress –, and Peter didn’t pay attention to either Ethan nor Killian who were trying to come up with an explanation to their Head’s sudden absence with a bit too much excitement considering the subject.

Upon hearing that all off Winnant’s classes were going to be passed to Professor Hogarth for time being, the Hufflepuff table groaned as one entity. A lot of Slytherins chuckled at the Hufflepuffs’ pain, while Gryffindors murmured empathically, knowing all too well about teacher rivalry between the Houses. Ravenclaws mostly frowned, for they knew just how bad Hogarth actually was at Arithmancy.

Before dinner, Madam Pomfrey had fortunately had a simple enough spell to heal the shallow cut on Peter’s cheek. She had also been kind enough to give Peter a small amount of potion for dreamless sleep so he could avoid the nightmares that sure were to come that night.

Meanwhile, cut or no cut, Ethan and Killian appeared as though they suspected something was wrong with their friend, but were too preoccupied with the rumours to bother Peter with their questions—after this week, they’d gotten used to his sudden disappearances or his frequent visits to the infirmary, writing them off as by-products of the attack. Peter preferred it that way.

As for Peter—he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He wanted to be left alone in order to digest all that happened just today – him waking up in the infirmary this morning with Collins next to his bed felt like a lifetime ago – but at the same time, the idea of leaving this loud, buzzing Great Hall scared him. He was afraid that once he was alone – and Hogwarts was big enough for a person to find themselves on a deserted hallway all of a sudden, with its vanishing stairs and secret passageways – the attacker might come back for revenge and catch Peter unawares.

No, Peter wasn’t sure what to think whilst the events in the herbology tower were still fresh in his mind—after all, it happened only a few hours ago. And yet, in between entering the tower and sitting in the Great Hall felt as though days had passed. A part of Peter was beginning to suspect that even time had been charmed to work outside of its laws within Hogwarts, but he knew that it was just his own perception playing tricks. Still, that didn’t mean Peter was closer to comprehending everything that had happened to him; his current needs, his priorities were all jumbled.

Mostly, he wanted to visit Professor Winnant to see if he was alright. For once, Peter didn’t want to do anything with the mystery—the artefact could wait a little. This whole thing was making Peter—forget what he actually was; a kid. Just… a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A kid who was caught up in something way bigger than his little world that only ever consisted of his friends and classes. There had not been a moment that Peter did not spend thinking about the mystery since he returned to Hogwarts a week ago, and his obsession with it, as Peter had painstakingly realised, was ruining his relationship with everyone around him.

George still refused to talk to him. Tommy seemed reluctant to be in his company. Gibson probably thought he could solve the mystery without him. Alex was—well, even more distant than before. Ethan and Killian looked at him as though he was not their friend, but rather someone else; a stranger.

And worst of all; it was not one-sided. Peter pushed them further away as he kept caring more about the attacker and the mystery than his friends. There was a noticeable rift between Peter and the others that seemed to grow in size with every decision Peter had to make, no matter what he did.

What good did it do to know more, to be important, and to learn the truth, if Peter was left alone in the end, without the support of his friends? Catching the criminal and ending the terror of the attacker were one thing, but if it meant that Peter had to sacrifice his friendships in order to do so—then Peter would rather tell the attacker what he wanted to know just so that he would leave Hogwarts and the students in peace.

It was better to find the middle road, a golden mean, as his father had always claimed, even if it meant giving up something for the sake of compromise. Of course, the best case scenario in this would have been if the attacker was caught as soon as possible, but somehow, for some cursed reason, Peter had been the first one to get so close to the attacker since he first appeared during the holidays—two weeks ago. If neither Hogwarts nor the Ministry were capable of catching him, then… how many more had to fall victim until the terror was over? How many more students – and teachers – had to go to St. Mungo’s until Hogwarts realized that maybe—maybe someone had done the impossible, and managed to best some of the most brilliant wizards in the entire country?

Peter didn’t understand. Maybe his father was right to always seek the middle road, even if the thought of doing so left a bad taste in Peter’s mouth; he did _not_ want to compromise with a criminal. He did not want to sacrifice anything for the sake of progress.

“Peter,” said Killian cautiously, leaning over his plate of soup to look at Peter right next to him. “You look like—”

“—Killian trying to write an exam he didn’t study for,” Ethan finished for Killian, earning an elbow to the ribs from his best friend on his other side.

“Sod off,” Killian growled, and turned back to Peter. “You’ve been—are you sure you’re alright?”

Peter closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, and took a bite from his sandwich to give himself some time. Ethan and Killian never knew when to take a step back, and though their energetic nature was usually a welcome constant in Peter’s life, now the two boys felt like annoying little pixies next to all of Peter’s gargantuan problems.

He then shrugged, ready to brush them off, but a glass cup clinked loudly, and the Great Hall went from deafening conversations to murmured whispers as the Headmaster rose from his seat once again—hopefully for the last time tonight.

“Oh, and before I forget,” said Dipper in his Headmaster-y tone, “in Professor Winnant’s absence, his duty as the Head of Hufflepuff will be carried out by Professor Dumbledore, who was kind enough to volunteer his services. Thank you for your attention, carry on.”

The hall erupted with animated arguments and puzzled looks as to _why_ Dumbledore would volunteer to take care of _Hufflepuff_ , instead of, say, Professor Beery – which was not surprising seeing as how the Herbology teacher made himself busy with the care of greenhouses and the school’s dramatics group, the latter of which had been an absolute disaster at their Yuletide performance according to those who had stayed in Hogwarts for the holidays – but at least Peter was left alone to his thoughts and his dinner that he could barely stomach.

If it was in any other circumstances, Peter wouldn’t have given the news any thought. It was not uncommon for teachers to leave the position of Head of House – as it came with yet another load of responsibilities –, though not as quick as just a mere few years, but Peter knew that this change was partly due to him.

He had become a vital part of the mysterious attacks in Hogwarts, and Dumbledore, being the leader of the investigation team, must have thought that this way he could keep a closer eye on him. Peter had no idea what Dumbledore was planning; what sort of plan Dumbledore had proposed to the Headmaster back in his office, as Dippet had told Collins to take Peter to Madam Pomfrey to treat the cut on his face before it had the chance to leave a scar, but Peter had a feeling that there were some kind of concealed hostility between Hogwarts and the Ministry for whatever reason. Perhaps they didn’t trust Collins enough to monitor Peter alone, nor did they seem to trust the Auror enough to let him in on their plan.

Perhaps, this difference was the reason why they could not catch the culprit.

Peter looked around the Great Hall to orient himself, because suddenly he felt like he was about to float away into the illusion of the distant night sky above. He started with the professors; Beery looked relieved that he didn’t have to deal with Hufflepuff beyond his classes. Professor Hogarth appeared rather smug, which in hindsight was not surprising considering he’d always made it clear that he resented Winnant for taking the position from him. The theory that the Ravenclaw Head was somehow involved with the attacker was reinforced in Peter. If he knew this would happen, he wouldn’t have signed up for Advanced Arithmancy.

In the centre, Headmaster Dippet was talking with Professor Dumbledore next to him, but Peter quickly had to avert his eyes when both of them turned their gaze his way.

Peter turned around, and looked down the length of the long tables, though as the years went by, he had gotten closer and closer to the entrance—next year, his place would be at the very end of the table. With Gryffindor right next to them, Peter noticed Tommy sitting with his fellow seventh years. They locked eyes for a moment, but Peter looked away after a few seconds. He didn’t search for George – he was probably sitting with his back turned to Peter – and the Ravenclaw table was across the middle aisle, partially hidden by the Gryffindors, while Slytherin was beyond them—not that Alex would be there. It seemed as though Peter would never have the chance to talk to Alex about the train incident.

As the dinner progressed, some teachers and students began filtering out. Conversations about the rumours gradually changed into more general discussions and common gossiping, one of the most prominent of which was the Quidditch match tomorrow; Hufflepuff against Ravenclaw.

“Peter,” said Ethan, as though he had just read Peter’s mind, “you coming to tomorrow’s match?”

“You’ve got to come,” Killian added immediately, not bothering to even swallow. “Unless you want us to drag you there. Because we will. Right, Ethan?”

“Aye, aye,” Ethan nodded animatedly. “It’s a punishment, Peter.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He took a moment to consider his options. He wasn’t much of a Quidditch fan, but he could never stay entirely unbothered with the matches seeing the excitement in his friends and most of the other students before every game. Then, the entire school always seemed more alive than ever, and it never failed to lift Peter’s spirits too.

“Alright, I’ll go,” he agreed then. Ethan clapped, while Killian got Peter into a friendly headlock. Peter supposed, he deserved some normalcy – or at least the illusion of it – after what he had to go through today. Heck, maybe he might even forget about everything horrible for a while, and have some fun for once, even though the thought of it seemed more improbable than ever. How could he have fun when there was a criminal at large, and Peter had probably managed to piss him off even more?

After dinner, Peter left with Ethan and Killian at his side, their conversation spreading far and beyond between subjects like a wide-boughed tree, one branch for every topic the two boys could think of as they made their way down the stairs and into the dungeons. It was a welcome change—Peter hadn’t realized just how much he missed this.

The Hufflepuff Common Room was the exact opposite of Winnant’s tower: warm and welcoming, filled with gentle voices, and amply illuminated. The small, disc-shaped windows had turned dark with the early sunset, but the hearth and copper lamps offered more than enough light, making the room appear even more yellow, compared to the blue twilight of the herbology tower. The snow stayed outside, and so did the whistling squalls of winter wind—here they would not touch Peter. In the corner, partially hidden behind a short arcade, an exedra of garden basked in magical sunlight, the various plants green as ever even in the depths of winter, like a whisper of summer; Hufflepuff’s own little greenhouse. During winter this spacious recess would always have a Hufflepuff or two lying in the soft grass—even now it was occupied by a pair of second years playing Wizard’s Chess quietly.

No matter what happened to Peter in any other corner of the castle, being in his Common Room never failed to soothe and fill him with the sense of security. In there, he felt more protected than anywhere else within Hogwarts, and after the events in the herbology tower Peter wanted nothing more than to feel this safe.

Not even the thought of Collins could shatter it as Peter joined a fellow Hufflepuff girl by the notice board to sign up for the Auror’s Apparation course for the semester. Peter felt confident, not in his skills – he did not yet possess any – but in his experience with the spell. If he managed to survive apparition alongside Collins not once, but three times, he would pass the course with flying marks and get his license sooner than anyone this year.

With that done, Peter followed Ethan and Killian through the tunnel that led to the boys’ dormitory. The short tunnel opened into a low-ceilinged fan vault that branched into several corridors, each corresponding to one of the seven years, and additionally, two bathrooms. Each corridor held a couple doors leading to three or four-bed rooms, depending on how many boys were in that particular year. Peter’s year yielded exceptionally few boys for Hufflepuff – seven in total – so he shared a three-bed room with Ethan and Killian, while the other four in his year shared another. Though the rooms were considerably large, they were cosily cluttered, and there was enough space for three teenage boys to fit inside comfortably.

Now the middle of their room hosted an impromptu duel without wands between Ethan and Killian, and as the two boys chased each other around the room, jumping up and down their beds while hurling the same three words at one other, Peter stopped in the door, his legs freezing to the ground as he was suddenly reminded of his not-so innocent duel just hours ago.

Killian, the more perceptive of the two, noticed Peter’s hesitation, and came to a sudden halt. Ethan ran into him accidentally. “Peter?” he asked, pushing Ethan off. “Now you look like you’ve seen an Inferius.”

“Or when Killian had to drink my Gurdyroot infusion,” Ethan quipped in with a grin, which, as he continued to stare at Peter, quickly turned into a concerned frown.

“Your Gurdyroot infusion was not disgusting, it was downright terrifying, you bum,” Killian mumbled, but his expression mirrored that of Ethan.

Peter stared ahead of himself, forcing himself to leave Professor Winnant’s ruined, dark and cold room. He was in his own bedroom—he was safe in here.

“I’m—” started Peter, “going to take a bath. A very long bath.”

“Nooo!” Killian whined, seemingly having already forgotten his concern for Peter. “I wanted to go first!”

“It’s my turn to go first, anyway,” Ethan snaked an arm around Killian’s neck and got the boy into a headlock. “You go on ahead, Pete.”

While his two friends started to wrestle on the floor, Peter grabbed his pyjamas and backtracked into the central chamber of the boys’ dormitory, and locked the door of one of the bathrooms with his wand.

The clawfoot tub in the corner was already full with mountains of pearlescent bubbles by the time Peter undressed, and slipping into the scalding hot water felt better than any magical remedy a potion or spell could provide. The last bits of his lingering fear and coldness left his muscles, and only now could Peter feel that he was ready to leave the herbology tower behind.

He could fall asleep right there, he felt. He didn’t even need Madam Pomfrey’s potion, he was too exhausted to even dream.

Being reminded of the potion, Peter stared at the small vial with narrow eyes. He’d set it down on the counter, having carried it around in his pockets since his visit to the infirmary. Under the light of the copper lamp, enunciated by the light brown walls and wheat-coloured tiles, the usually purple coloured potion appeared somewhat orange-ish. He’d never noticed it before—but maybe it was because Madam Pomfrey had run out of her usual dark glasses, and was forced to use a clear, transparent vial for Peter’s potion. She was leagues better a potioneer than Peter, so he didn’t have a reason to worry.

Still, a thought nudged at his mind, telling him that he should stop being so dependent on potions to get through the night. The sharp images of the train attack had all faded after a week, blurry as they were though not completely gone, Peter knew that the longer he went on, the harder it would be for him to fall asleep without them. He trusted Madam Pomfrey unconditionally, but she’d been meaning to provide Peter for only the first couple days—it’s been a week since then, and some potions were exceptionally easy to grow dependent on.

Such was the Potion for Dreamless Sleep. A lot of troubled wizards and witches preferred to get a good night’s rest without being woken up by nightmares—Peter had seen it first-hand in his father. Some jobs in the Ministry of Magic were hard to deal with, so much so that only their effects could be relieved by outside help.

Peter didn’t want to end up like his father, so he decided to give the potion back to Madam Pomfrey the next day. He just had to—get through the night first.

Though it wasn’t much of a surprise when Peter woke up in the middle of night, just the moment the bright shaft of the mysterious attacker’s _Incendio_ hit Peter right in the chest as he struggled within his icy prison in a similarly ruined tower, the image was still scary. The man’s laughter echoed in his mind along with his last words of ‘ _let me get you out of that ice’_ , as Peter sat up drenched in sweat, gasping for air, his arms roaming his torso. His chest ached as his lungs wheezed loudly, though not louder than Killian’s snoring.

Peter tried to go back to sleep after calming down, but the moment he closed his eyes, images started flashing immediately behind his eyelids, and the snoring grew louder and louder until Peter got sick of it, and decided to leave his bedroom for the empty Common Room. He took the potion with him in a moment of weakness.

When Peter opened the tunnel door to the Common Room, the first thing he noticed was a girl curled up on one of the sofas, with a blanket around her shoulders. She was staring impassively at the low fire within the hearth until she heard the door to the boys’ dormitory give out a quiet creak. The girl stared at Peter, and Peter stared back. The girl’s eyes widened after a long, quiet second, and Peter considered just going back to his room—but he didn’t want to return to the snoring or the lingering nightmares or he might give in and drink the potion. Here, in the Common Room, it was always warm, and though now darker with the copper lamps and candles extinguished, the fireplace crackled soothingly, and the idea of a silent company appealed to Peter more than being alone for the moment.

He quietly settled in a soft armchair, and pulled his knees to his chest. He watched the unknown girl turn back to the fire – she wasn’t in his year – from the corner of his eyes for a moment before following her example. They both listened to the crackle of timber, the occasional soft pop as lambent flames danced around.

Peter focused so much on the fire that he missed the deep breath the girl had taken, so her soft voice startled him a bit.

“You’re Peter Dawson, right?” she asked softly. Her voice cracked as though she hadn’t talked in a long time. “I’m Estrella—Estrella West. A year under you,” she added quickly as though she thought that Peter would want to know why she’d introduce herself if they were in the same year. “I was on the train too.”

“Oh,” said Peter, turning to Estrella with a guarded expression. Most of those who were on Hogwarts Express last Saturday usually just stared at him when he passed by them, especially the first and second years with such reverence that Peter felt too much to bear. He hadn’t done anything exceptional, but they treated him as though he was their saviour—still, not many could muster the courage to walk up to him and thank him face to face. “It was… scary, wasn’t it?”

Scary was an understatement.

Estrella tipped her head in a shy nod. “Terrifying… Everybody’s talking about what you did there. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have believed them… how you saved us.”

Peter turned his head from the fifth-year so she wouldn’t see his expression. To Merlin’s cursed beard, he was starting to get tired of being treated like this.

“It was the Auror—who’s holding the Apparation course this year,” said Peter, though he didn’t know why he was trying to explain himself. “If not for him…”

Estrella continued, leaning forward. “But you were the one who stayed and protected us… those two seventh-years could barely summon the Patronus Charm, and—and I’ve read that not many can keep it up for more than a few seconds, and—you did. Multiple times.”

Peter sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. His cheek felt warm, but he wrote it off as the heat from the fire. “Frankly, I still don’t know how I managed to do it.”

“I will never forget it,” said Estrella with a gentle smile, and shifted a bit. A moment later though her smile disappeared. “Even though I wish I could forget that entire night…”

Peter looked at the girl with sympathy. “Is this why you’re here?”

Estrella just nodded, pulling up her shoulders to bury her head deeper into the cocoon of her blanket. Peter thumbed at the small vial hidden in his pocket. Though he did not want to be treated as some sort of—saviour, the attention becoming just a tad too overwhelming, but he could not just look the other way when a fellow student was in need of help.

And help, Peter could, now. He had just what Estrella needed.

But was it a good idea to give the potion to her? Madam Pomfrey had brewed it for him. He didn’t know if he was allowed to hand the potion over to another student.

“Here,” said Peter, placing the vial on the wooden table between them. Estrella glanced at the glass in confusion, and then at Peter.

“What is it?” she asked cautiously, but opened her blanket to come out of her protective shell as though she welcomed an idea only she knew.

“Potion for Dreamless Sleep,” Peter supplied carefully. “I… got it from Madam Pomfrey, but—you need it more than I do.”

“Is it okay for me to…?”

Peter nodded. For a moment he wondered why Estrella didn’t just go to the matron for a potion if she couldn’t sleep from the nightmares, but—it wasn’t his business. Maybe she was too afraid. She seemed shy enough.

“Just drink it before going to sleep. You can give the vial back in the morning,” said Peter with a smile, and stood up to return to his bed after Estrella thanked him quietly. He felt slightly more at peace with himself after helping the girl. The nightmares did not return.

 

In the morning, the entire House was enveloped in excited chaos as the start of the Quidditch match crawled onwards like the clock in the Common Room that people kept glancing at... It was the only game for the Inter-House Cup until March after which there would be two more, a total of six matches throughout the entire year. The January games were always the most dreaded during the cup because of the cold and possible snow storms, but they also came with bonus points in the championship because of these difficulties—winning a January match carried more prestige and points than winning a November or April one. If Hufflepuff won, no matter their score, they would jump from fourth place to the second.

It was impossible not to know the places of the Houses in the Quidditch Cup even for someone like Peter. This information felt so—mundane to Peter in light of all that he knew about mysterious people attacking Hogwarts as though no one really cared about it but him.

From the moment he was woken up by Killian, to the moment Peter caught up with Estrella in the basement corridor, every conversation around him was about Quidditch, their scores, their odds and so on and so on.

This was until which his normalcy lasted, because when Peter walked up to Estrella, the girl looked downright frightened.

“Hey,” greeted Peter with a smile that quickly turned confused. He tried to figure out why Estrella was looking at him with such widened eyes as though they’d never spoken to each other before.

“Y-yes?” she stuttered, and it was so out of her character based on what Peter had seen last night that for a moment he thought he was still asleep, dreaming.

What had gotten into her?

“I’d like to take the vial back to Madam Pomfrey.”

Estrella looked around, not knowing what to make of Peter’s request. “W-what vial?”

Peter furrowed his brows. He was fairly sure that last night was real, as indicated by the absence of the Potion for Dreamless Sleep. He _had_ given it to Estrella so that the girl could have a good night’s sleep, but then again—why was Estrella acting like it was just a dream?

The girl’s behaviour confused Peter. She couldn’t have been acting, no, her expression was genuine, as was her voice. Peter recoiled.

“I’m pretty sure I gave you a… potion last night. For your nightmares?” Peter explained quietly, a step closer to Estrella so that the Hufflepuffs passing by them wouldn’t hear their conversation. Peter hoped it didn’t look too intimate—he didn’t need any more rumours about him, and to Merlin’s beard were some people determined to know every piece of gossip within the castle’s walls.

“Oh,” Estrella gaped, and a moment later realisation flashed across her pale face. She hurriedly reached into her winter robe – she must have been ready to make her way to the Quidditch pitch – and pulled out the empty vial as though it was cursed. “I—I didn’t know why it was on my night desk…!”

“Estrella,” said Peter cautiously, “is everything fine?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” the girl nodded with a forced smile. “I just didn’t remember you giving it to me, but it must have worked. I had no nightmares at all.”

Peter mirrored her expression. “That’s a relief. And—I’m sorry if I scared you just now.”

“Don’t worry,” Estrella waved her hand, looking a bit more relieved. Before she left, she thanked Peter, and disappeared up the stairs as though she was being chased by one of the ghosts. Peter stuffed the vial into his pocket, a notion prodding at his mind, which he was about to explore had it not been for Ethan’s voice calling his name.

“There you are,” said Killian, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulder, and without a word they began to pull Peter towards the stairs. “We thought you might have locked yourself into the bathroom like last time.”

“Nah, I said I would go, didn’t I?” Peter assured his friends. “I just have to drop by the infirmary.”

“Why, are you hurt?” Ethan asked, concerned. The word _again_ was left unsaid.

“I’m fine,” said Peter, but he couldn’t think of a lie this fast, so he didn’t spring into any explanation. His friends would have to do without one this time.

Killian whistled lowly. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time in there. Does our Peter have a crush on good ole Madam Pomfrey?” he sang, but quickly shut his mouth when Peter stomped on his feet.

“Save me a seat,” said Peter before he turned down a corridor that led to the stairs in the Quad while the others continued across the courtyard towards the East Wing and the Training Grounds. It was a long way to the pitch, but no one passed up the opportunity to walk the sloping hills and marvel at the picturesque land that embraced Hogwarts. Not even during winter, despite the cold and the snow—if anything, the view was even more marvellous. True, the walk would be less boring with company, but that way Peter at least would have some time to himself. Today was all about their community, though that didn’t mean Peter would want to spend his entire day with Ethan and Killian—the two boys were incredibly exhausting sometimes.

Only the idea of walking alone so out of sight scared Peter a bit, but—if the attacker decided to ambush him outside, he would just make as loud a commotion as he could.

The Hospital Wing was deserted; all the beds were empty except for one separated with curtains all around. Poor sod was going to miss the best Quidditch game of the year. Just yesterday morning, Peter had been sleeping there, and though it was now a bit later than when he had woken up, the morning sun was still flooding the entire room with its golden glow. Nevertheless, Peter would very much want to avoid spending more time in there.

He knocked on the door of the Matron’s Office, and stepped in. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her work as she sat behind her desk, and smiled at Peter.

“Good morning, Mr. Dawson, how are you feeling?” she asked, placing her quill on the desk. She stood up and rounded the desk.

Peter waited a beat. “Well rested,” he said. Which wasn’t a lie, because he did feel fresh. The matron’s smile widened. “Thanks to the potion.” Now _that_ was a lie. He just wanted to make sure that Madam Pomfrey believed him.

“Lovely,” said the nurse and accepted the empty vial. She placed it on a rack along with other empty containers. “If you still have need of them, I can always brew one for you.”

Peter was quick to hide his confusion with a less-than-genuine smile. “It’s alright. I’m alright now.”

Madam Pomfrey tipped her head to the side as though she didn’t believe Peter. “Are you sure?”

Weird. Why was she so willing to supply Peter with more Potion for Dreamless Sleep now? By Thursday, she’d been concerned that Peter was drinking too much of it; Peter had nearly had to plead the matron to give him more, and now—it was as though she had completely changed her mind on her standpoint. Or—someone else had changed her mind.

“Yes,” Peter nodded fervently to assure the matron. She didn’t seem convinced, so Peter decided to leave the battlefield before things could get worse. “Well, I better get going. The match is starting soon.”

 

By the time Peter reached the Training Grounds, he was sure that something was wrong with Madam Pomfrey. She had been rather straightforward in her opinion that she would rather have Peter stop with the potions before it was too late, so to have her offer another dose willingly was rather strange.

Something must have happened that Peter didn’t know about. Something that concerned him as well. He didn’t like it. Not to mention that thing with Estrella earlier in the morning—something _made_ her forget her meeting with Peter in the early hours of the day. He was beginning to think that something was in the air at Hogwarts. And whatever it was, it was definitely not love.

The benches on both sides of the pitch were full with spectators, and the tall stands were covered in the colours of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff; in the white backdrop, the bright yellow and deep black were as incongruous as the Ravenclaw cold blue and warm bronze seemed to fit right into the landscape. The noise coming from the pitch was noticeable from far away, but as Peter neared the premises, the cheers increased tenfold. Between the towering stands, Peter could see the Hufflepuff members were already in the air for their warm-up.

Down on the ground just outside the pitch was the teams’ tents, one for each House. As Peter neared the pitch and the tents, he slipped his wand into his pocket, his palm clammy after gripping the wand beneath his robe. He’d been more than ready to take on the attacker, but he was glad that it hadn’t come to that.

Similar to George, Gibson was also a Quidditch player in his House’s team, that Peter knew despite the recognition that he and the Ravenclaw student only ever talked about the train attack. Gibson must have joined the team just recently because, even though Peter rarely watched Qudditch matches, he’d never seen Gibson play before. He wondered if the seventh year boy was as good at Quidditch as he was at finding relevant information in seemingly random books. Peter knew that he himself was horrible at both.

One of the nearest stair entrances to the benches was right beside the outermost tent, so Peter made his way there. It must have been one of the side entrances, because the path was barely beaten, and the gently drifting snow was already filling up some of the earlier footprints, making his trudge more difficult. The fresh snow crunched beneath his shoes.

Peter thought the tents were empty, seeing as how Hufflepuff had been outside in the pitch even before he arrived, and a previous spike in the volume of the crowd’s cheers suggesting Ravenclaw’s entrance, but when Peter reached the tent, he suddenly heard voices. He halted immediately as he tried to listen, a difficult task with all the noise coming from the nearby pitch.

“I told you to do your job properly!” a man scolded, his voice muffled, and though Peter only had one class with him, he was sure that it was Professor Hogarth. Maybe the Head of Ravenclaw was trying to somehow boost one of their players’ morale for the match.

Peter leaned closer to the tent without giving himself away. Someone talked next, but the increasing noise from the pitch overwhelmed it too much for Peter to understand anything.

Then Professor Hogarth replied. “You haven’t even asked him about Winnant.”

Peter furrowed his brows, confused.

“But Professor, it only had just happened yesterday—”

Gibson?

Peter didn’t have enough time to even comprehend what he’d just heard as Hogarth spoke up again.

“I don’t care!” the professor hissed, barely able to keep his own voice down. From the sounds of it, nobody was supposed to hear this conversation, much less Peter of all people. “You told me you gained his trust—he must know what happened to Winnant.”

“I—I’ll try, Professor,” Gibson stuttered. It was something Peter had never thought he would hear from the Ravenclaw student. “But he keeps so many secrets from me.”

“Then what were you on about him trusting you, huh?” Hogarth bit back. Peter strained his ear to hear everything, because that’s all he could do for now—listen. Then, he would take the time to realise the things he’d just heard.

“Because he gave me that enchanted paper to—to message each other instantly,” Gibson was saying, and with each word, Peter felt less inclined to stay. They were talking about him. There was no doubt.

Betrayal was hot and cold in his guts, but hotter was the anger that bubbled in his chest. Only his curiosity kept him from revealing himself, and though he knew it would have been the absolute worst decision given his situation, he could barely keep himself from doing something incredibly foolish.

The momentary break in the conversation ended with Hogarth continuing.

“I don’t care how you do it,” he sighed in exasperation, “but if you blow my plan, an anonymous tip might find its way to the Ministry about your sister.”

“Please, professor,” Gibson pleaded, “just—I just need some more time.”

“You’ve been saying this since you got back! I’m tired of waiting. Do your job, or your sister will rot in Azkaban for the rest of her life.”

There was a moment of silence so heavy with tension that it weighed down on Peter as well, even though he was not part of the conversation—not in the classic way, at least.

“I could give you up to the Ministry, you know, _professor_ ,” Gibson said then, his voice low and threatening, even more so with the formality of Gibson’s choice of words. This Gibson was more like the Ravenclaw student Peter knew. “Or I could just go to Dippet, right now. And if he’s in on it too, I’ll find that Auror and tell him about you and—”

Hogarth let out a loud growl, and sounds of struggle filtered out from inside the tent. Before Peter could react, something crashed against the side of the tent, the thick material suddenly appearing to be mere inches from Peter’s face. He almost lost his balance and fell back, but he managed to catch himself.

He’d heard enough. There was no reason for him to stay. Sick to the stomach, Peter turned around, and cautiously took a few steps backwards to get as far from the tent as he could without being heard. He walked in a direction with the intention of heading back to the school—he was not in the right mood to sit through a Quidditch match right now. He didn’t care about that damn game.

“Peter?”

There was not a moment of rest for him, was there?

Peter didn’t want to stop. His heart picked up, thinking he’d been caught by Gibson, but a moment later his brain recognised the voice to be Tommy’s. It was enough to stop him, turning his knees rigid with something that Peter didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Just leave me alone!” Peter blurted out, slapped Tommy’s hand off his arm, and without a better idea, started to run. He ignored Tommy’s calls. With no destination in mind, he didn’t stop until he became exhausted. Focusing on the bite of the air inside his throat and lungs, the coldness distracted him from his thoughts, but once Peter slowed down to catch his breath, he couldn’t stop them.

How could Gibson betray him? He’d been working with – for? – Hogarth the whole time, _using_ Peter. How could he be so blinded to notice the truth?

Tommy had been right—he was too self-important. He thought the world revolved around him with his damn Patronus-summoning and attacker-chasing and private-investigating quests.

Not for the first time, Peter Dawson had to remind himself that he didn’t have the least idea what he was doing, or if what he was doing was not going to put everyone in danger. Why couldn’t he just—walk away? Why could he just _stop_? Pretend that nothing happened? Why?

For Merlin’s sake, lives were at stake! He could have died in that tower yesterday. Professor Winnant could have died!

This was not a game.

There was a crack. A mighty crack, an icy crunch that echoed far and beyond down the length and width of the entire Great Lake. The sound pulled Peter back to his senses, and he needed a moment to register _where_ he was.

The coast was several yards away, frozen and white, unwelcoming. The imprint of Peter’s footsteps was ominous on the even surface of the ice.

Peter slowly looked down.

The ice cracked beneath his feet, barely any snow to cover the web of cracks forming around him. A death slow enough for him to realise that he was going to die.

He couldn’t even move his arms to grab his wand, frozen with fear. He was alone. No one was nearby, no one was going to hear his scream. He was going to die alone and bitter, betrayed, disillusioned. A disappointment to his parents, a black stain on the Dawson family name.

Peter’s only thought was that he should have taken up on Collins’ offer of the private Apparation class, before the ice gave way, and then—

There was nothing, but cold. Freezing darkness enveloped him like an impenetrable swarm of dementors twisting his body, pulling him down into the black abyss. Even the air inside his lungs seemed to freeze, and his muscles grew numb so fast Peter didn’t even have time to reach for his wand. His robe became too heavy for his arms and legs.

It felt like an eternity that Peter spent beneath the ice, in the claws of the cold lake and dementors. Then there was a tug at his robe, and suddenly, water rushed past his face until whiteness nearly blinded him even through his closed eyelids.

He thought that maybe he was rescued by the elusive mermaids living in the lake, but then Peter faintly recognised the sensation of being pulled by his legs, two strong arms gripping his ankles. His robe and arms trailed after him limply, shirt getting untucked from his rigid pants, and the rough ice clawing into his exposed, though numb skin. He felt even colder than in the water, if it was even possible.

Peter saw the silhouette of skeletal branches of dead trees reach above him. The sky was blindingly white. His clothes were frosty. Somebody breathed heavily, and dropped Peter’s legs to the ground once they reached the coast.

Peter stared up. He couldn’t even blink, couldn’t move his eyes. And then the sky was blocked out by a blurry person that stood over Peter before he crouched down.

“W-we’re n-not done, D-Dawson,” the person stuttered. It was not from the cold. “I-I need what’s in—inside your head.”

Peter fell asleep with the pressure of something against his forehead, the tip of a finger or a wand, he didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no gibson, what have you done? 
> 
> also as you can see, i never pass up the chance to show my love for the hufflepuff common room (took the liberty to make it even more appealing. because i can).
> 
> also also, i have no idea what is happening anymore. this story took on a life of its own. TOO MANY SUBPLOTS AND STUFF. I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THEM ANYMORE. welp. 
> 
> catch me @ gyunikum on twitter and/or curiouscat


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